LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chap. __.*... Cop}Tight No.. 



Shelf.. ..UjL. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




Owen Meredith. 



36080 \ 

I-ibi:»ry of Congr^ -^^rT^ 

Two Copies Received I \^ 
AUG 18 1900 

CtpyifgM «ntry 

SECOND m?y. 

Odiveradto 

ORDER DIVISION, 
[AU 6_27 1900 J 



Copyright, 1900, by W. B. Conkey Company. 

68751 



DEDICATION. 



TO MY FATHER. 

I dedicate to you a work, which is submitted 
to the public with a diffidence and hesitation 
proportioned to the novelty of the effort it 
represents. For in this poem I have aban- 
doned those forms of verse with which I had 
most familiarized my thoughts, and have en- 
deavored to follow a path on which I could dis- 
cover no footprints before me, either to guide 
or to warn. 

There is a moment of profound discourage- 
ment which succeeds to prolonged effort; when, 
the labor which has become a habit having 
ceased, we miss the sustaining sense of its 
companionship, and stand, with a feeling of 
strangeness and embarrassment, before the 
abrupt and naked result. As regards myself 
in the present instance, the force of all such 
sensations is increased by the circumstances 
to which I have referred. And in this moment 
of discouragement and doubt, my heart in- 
stinctively turns to you, from whom it has so 
often sought, from whom it has never failed to 
receive, support. 

3 



4 DEDICATION. 

I do not inscribe to you this book because it 
contains anything that is worthy of the beloved 
and honored name with which I thus seek to 
associate it ; nor yet because I would avail my- 
self of a vulgar pretext to display in public an 
affection that is best honored by the silence 
which it renders sacred. 

Feelings only such as those with which, in 
days when there existed for me no critic less 
gentle than yourself, I brought to you my child- 
ish manuscripts; feelings only such as those 
which have, in later years, associated with 
your heart all that has moved or occupied my 
own — lead me once more to seek assurance 
from the grasp of that hand which has hitherto 
been my guide and comfort through the life I 
owe to you. 

And as in childhood, when existence had no 
toil beyond the day's simple lesson, no ambi- 
tion beyond the neighboring approval of the 
night, I brought to you the morning's task 
for the evening's sanction, so now I bring to 
you this self-appointed task- work of maturer 
years ; less confident, indeed, of your approval, 
but not less confident of your love ; and anxious 
only to realize your presence between myself 
and the public, and to mingle with those se- 
verer voices to whose final sentence I submit 
my work the beloved and gracious accents of 
your own. 

OWEN MEREDITH. 



LUCILE. 

PART I. 

CANTO I. 



Letter from the Comtesse de Nevers to 
Lord Alfred Vargrave. 

*'I hear from Bigorre you are there. I am told 
You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old, 
So long since you may have forgotten it now 
(When we parted as friends, soon mere strang- 
ers to grow), 
Your last words recorded a pledge — what you 

will — 
A promise — the time is now come to fulfill. 
The letters I ask you, my lord, to return, 
I desire to receive from your hand. You dis- 
cern 
My reasons, which, therefore, I need not ex- 
plain. 
The distance to Serchon is short. I remain 
A month in these mountains. Miss Darcy, 
perchance, 

5 



6 LUCILE. 

Will forego one brief page from the summer 

romance 
Of her courtship, and spare you one day from 

your place 
At her feet, in the light of her fair English 

face. 
I desire nothing more, and I trust you will feel 
I desire nothing much. 

**Your friend always, 



II. 



Now in May Fair, of course, — in the fair 
month of May — 

When life is abundant, and busy, and gay ; 
, When the markets of London are noisy about 

Young ladies, and strawberries, — *'only just 
out;*' 

Fresh strawberries sold under all the house- 
eaves. 

And young ladies on sale for the strawberry- 
leaves ; 

When cards, invitations, and three-corner'd 
notes 

Fly about like white butterflies — gay little 
motes 

In the sunbeam of fashion; and even Blue 
Books 

Take a heavy-wing'd flight, and grow busy as 
rooks ; 

And the postman (that Genius, indifferent and 
stern, 



LUCILE. 7 

Who shakes out even-handed to all, from his 

urn, 
Those lots which so often decide if our day 
Shall be fretful and anxious, or joyous and 

gay) 
Brings, each morning, more letters of one sort 

or other 
Than Cadmus, himself, put together, to bother 
The heads of Hellenes ; — I say, in the season 
Of Fair May, in May Fair, there can be no 

reason 
Why, when quietly munching your dry toast 

and butter. 
Your nerves should be suddenly thrown in a 

flutter 
At the sight of a neat little letter, addressed 
In a woman's handwriting, containing, half- 
guess 'd. 
An odor of violets faint as the Spring, 
And coquettishly seal'd with a small signet- 
ring, 
But in Autumn, the season of somber reflec- 
tion. 
When a damp day, at breakfast, begins with 

dejection ; 
Far from London and Paris, and ill at one's 

ease. 
Away in the heart of the blue Pyrenees, 
Where a call from the doctor, a stroll to the 

bath, 
A ride through the hills on a hack like a lath, 
A cigar, a French novel, a tedious flirtation, 
Are all a man finds for his day's occupation, 
The whole case, believe me, is totally changed, 



8 LUCILE. 

And a letter may alter the plans we arranged 
Over-night, for the slaughter of time — a wild 

beast, 
Which, though classified yet by no naturalist, 
Abounds in these mountains, more hard to 

ensnare, 
And more mischievous, too, than the Lynx or 

the Bear. 



III. 

I marvel less, therefore, that, having already 

Torn open this note, with a hand most un- 
steady. 

Lord Alfred was startled. 

The month is September; 

Time, morning ; the scene at Bigorre ; (pray 
remember 

These facts, gentle reader, because I in- 
tend 

To fling all the unities by at the end.) 

He walk'd to the window. The morning was 
chill; 

The brown woods were crisp 'd in the cold on 
the hill: 

The sole thing abroad in the streets was the 
wind: 

And the straws on the gust, like the thoughts 
in his mind, 

Rose, and eddied around and around, as tho* 
teasing 

Each other. The Prospect, in truth, was 
unpleasing: 



LUCILE. 9 

And Lord Alfred, whilst moodily gazing 

around it, 
To himself more than once (vex'd in soul) 

sigh'd ** Confound it!'' 

IV. 

What the thoughts were which led to this bad 

interjection, 
Sir, or Madam, I leave to your future detection : 
For whatever they were, they were burst in 

upon. 
As the door was burst through, by my lord's 

Cousin John. 

Cousin John. 

A fool, Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool ! 

Lord Alfred. 

Who? 
John. 

The man who has anything better to do; 
And yet so far forgets himself, so far degrades 
His position as Man, to this worst of all trades, 
Which even a well-brought-up ape were above, 
To travel about with a woman in love, — 
Unless she's in love with himself. 

Alfred. 

Indeed! why 
Are you here then, dear Jack? 

John. 

Can't you guess it? 

2 Lucile 



10 LUCILE. 

Alfred. 

Not I. 

John. 

Because I have nothing that's better to do. 
I had rather be bored, my dear Alfred, by you, 
On the whole (I must own), than be bored by 

myself. 
That perverse, imperturbable, golden hair'd 

elf— 
Your Will-o-the-wisp— that has led you and. me 
Such a dance through these hills — 

Alfred. 

Who, Matilda? 
John. 

Yes! she. 
Of course ! who but she could contrive so to 

keep 
One's eyes, and one's feet too, from falling 

asleep 
For even one half-hour of the long twenty-. 
four? 

Alfred. 
What's the matter? 

John. 
Why, she is — a matter, the more 
I consider about it, the more it demands 
An attention it does not deserve ; and expands 
Beyond the dimensions which ev'n crinoline, 
When possessed by a fair face, and saucy 

Eighteen, 
Is entitled to take in this very small star. 
Already too crowded, as I think, by far. 
You read Malthus and Sadler? 



LUCILE. 11 

Alfred. 

Of course. 
John. 

To what use. 
When you countenance, calmly, such mon- 
strous abuse 
Of one mere human creature's legitimate space 
In this world? Mars, Apollo, Virorum! the 

case 
Wholly passes my patience. 

Alfred. 

My own is worse tried. 

John. 
Yours, Alfred? 

Alfred. 

Read this, if you doubt, and decide. 

John (reading" the letter). 

**I hear from Bigorre you are there. I am told 
You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of 

old—'' 
What is this? 

Alfred. 

Read it on the end, and you'll know. 

John (continues reading). 

'*When we parted, your last words recorded a 

vow — 
What you will" .... 

Hang it! this smells all oav'er, I swear, 
Of adventures and violets. Was it your hair 
You promised a lock of? 



12 LUCILE. 

Alfred. 

Read on. You'll discern. 

John (continues). 

** Those letters I ask you, my lord, to return." 
Humph! . . . Letters! . . . the matter is 

worse than I guess'd; 
I have my misgivings — 

Alfred. 

Well, read out the rest, 
And advise. 

John. 

Eh? . . . Where was I? 
(continues). 

"Miss Darcy, perchance, 
Will forego one brief page from the summer 

romance 
Of her courtship. "... 

Egad! a romance, for my part, 
I'd forego every page of, and not break my 
heart ! 

Alfred. 
Continue? 

John (reading). 

*'And spare you one day from your 
place at her feet. "... 

Pray forgive me the passing grimace. 
I wish you had my place! 
(reads.) 

"I trust you will feel 



LUCILE. 13 

I desire nothing much. Your friend*' . . . 

Bless me! *'Lucile?" 
The Comtesse de Nevers? 

Alfred. 

Yes. 

John. 

What will you do? 
Alfred. 

You ask me just what I would rather ask you. 

John. 
You can't go. 

Alfred. 

I must. 

John. 

And Matilda. 

Alfred 

Oh, that 
You must manage ! 

John. 

Must I? I decline it, though, flat. 
In an hour the horses will be at the door, 
And Matilda is now in her habit. Before 
I have finished my breakfast, of course I 

receive 
A message for **dear Cousin John I" ... I 

must leave 
At the jeweler's the bracelet which you broke 

last night. 



14 LUCILE. 

I must call for the music. **Dear Alfred is 

right : 
The black shawl looks best: will I change it? 

Of course 
I can just stop, in passing, to order the horse. 
Then Beau has the mumps, or St. Hubert 

knows what ; 
Will I see the dog-doctor?*' Hang Beau! I 

will not. 

Alfred. 

Tush, tush ! this is serious. 

John. 

It is. 

Alfred. 

Very well. 
You must think — 

John. 

What excuse will you make, tho'? 

Alfred. 

Oh, tell 
Mrs. Darcy that . . . lend me your wits. Jack ! 

. . . the deuce ! 
Can you not stretch your genius to fit a friend's 

use? 
Excuses are clothes which, when ask'd una- 
wares, 
Good Breeding to Naked Necessity spares, 
You must have a whole wardrobe, no doubt. 



LUCILE. 15 

John. 

My dear fellow, 
Matilda is jealous, you know, as Othello. 

Alfred. 
You joke. 

John. 

I am serious. Why go to Serchon? 

Alfred. 

Don't ask me. I have not a choice, my dear 

John. 
Besides, shall I own a strange sort of desire, 
Before I extinguish forever the fire 
Of youth and romance in whose shadowy light 
Hope whispered her first fairy tales, to excite 
The last spark, till it rise, and fade far in that 

dawn 
Of my days where the twilights of life were 

first drawn 
By the rosy, reluctant auroras of Love : 
In short, from the dead Past the gravestone 

to move ; 
Of the years long departed forever to take 
One last look, one final farewell ; to awake 
The Heroic of youth from the Hades of joy, 
And once more be, though but for an hour, 

Jack — a boy ! 

John. 

You had better go hang yourself. 

Alfred. 

No ! were it but 



16 LUCILE. 

To make sure that the Past from the Future is 

shut, 
It were worth the step back. Do you think we 

should live 
With the living so lightly, and learn to survive 
That wild moment in which to the grave and 

its gloom 
We consign'd our heart's best, if the doors of 

the tomb 
Were not lock'd with a key which Fate keeps 

for our sake? 
If the dead could return, or the corpses awake? 

John. 
Nonsense! 

Alfred. 

Not wholly. The man who gets up 
A fill' d guest from the banquet, and drains oflE 

his cup, 
Sees the last lamp extinguished with cheer- 
fulness, goes 
Well contented to bed, and enjoys its repose. 
But he who hath supp'd at the tables of kings, 
And yet starved in the sight of luxurious 

things ; 
Who hath watch 'd the wine flow, by himself 

but half tasted ; 
Heard the music, and yet miss'd the tune; who 

hath wasted 
One part of life's grand possibilities; — friend, 
That man will bear with him, be sure, to the 

end 
A blighted experience, a rancor within : 
You may call it a virtue, I call it a sin. 



LUCILE. 17 

John. 

I see you remember the cynical story 

Of that wicked old piece of Experience — a 

hoary 
Lothario, whom dying, the priest by his bed 
(Knowing well the unprincipled life he had 

led, 
And observing, with no small amount of sur- 
prise. 
Resignation and calm in the old sinner's eyes) 
Ask'd if he had nothing that weighed on his 

mind: 
*'Well, . . . no,'* . . . says Lothario, **I think 

not. I find. 
On reviewing my life, which in most thingfs 

was pleasant, 
I never neglected, when once it was present, 
An occasion of pleasing myself. On the whole, 
I have naught to regret;" . . . and so, smil- 
ing, his soul 
Took its flight from this world. 

Alfred. 

Well, Regret or Remorse, 
Which is best? 

John. 

Why, Regret. 

Alfred. 

No, Remorse, Jack, of course; 
For the one is related, be sure, to the other. 
Regret is a spiteful old maid: but her brother. 
Remorse, though a widower certainly, yet 

2 



liB LUCILE. 

Has been wed to young Pleasure. Dear Jack, 
hang Regret! 

John. 

Bref ! you mean, then, to go? 

Alfred. 

Bref! I do. 

John. 

One word . . . stay! 
Are you really in love with Matilda? 

Alfred. 

Love, eh? 
What a question ! Of course. 

John. 

Were you really in love 
With Madame de Nevers? 

Alfred. 

What, Lucile? No, by Jove, 
Never really. 

John. 

She's pretty? 

Alfred. 

Decidedly so. 
At least, so she was, some ten summers ago. 
As soft, and as sallow as Autumn — with hair 
Neither black, nor yet brown, but that tinge 

which the air 
Takes at eve in September, when night lingers 
lone 



LUCILE. 19 

Through a vineyard, from beams of a slow 

setting sun. 
Eyes — the wistful gazelle's; the fine foot of 

a fairy; 
And a hand fit a fay's wand to wave, — white 

and airy; 
A voice soft and sweet as a tune that one 

knows, 
Something in her there was, set you thinking 

of those 
Strange backgrounds of Raphael . . . that 

hectic and deep 
Brief twilight in which southern suns fall 

asleep. 

John. 
Coquette? 

Alfred. 

Not at all. 'Twas her one fault. Not she! 
I had loved her the better, had she less loved 

me. 
The heart of a man's like that delicate weed 
Which requires to be trampled on, boldly 

indeed. 
Ere it give forth the fragrance you wish to 

extract. 
'Tis a simile, trust me, if not new, exact. 

John. 
Women change so. 

Alfred. 

Of course. 
John. 

And, unless rumor errs, 



20 LUCILE. 

I believe that, last year, the Comtesse de 

Nevers* 
Was at Baden the rage^ — held an absolute court 
Of devoted adorers, and really made sport 
Of her subjects. 

Alfred. 

Indeed ! 
John. 

When she broke off with you 
Her engagement, her heart did not break 
with it? 

Alfred. 

Pooh! 
Pray would you have had her dress always in 

black. 
And shut herself up in a convent, dear Jack? 
Besides, 'twas my fault the engagement was 
broken. 

John. 

Most likely. How was it? 

*0 Shakespeare! how could'st thou ask * 'What's in a 

name?" 
*TJs the devil's in it, when a bard has to frame 
English rhymes for alliance with names that are 

French : 
And in these rhymes of mine, well I know that I trench 
All too far on that license which critics refuse, 
With just right, to accord to a well-brought-up Muse. 
Yet, tho' faulty the union, in many a line, 
'Twixt my British-born verse and 'my French heroine. 
Since, however auspiciously wedded they be» 
There is many a pair, that yet cannot agree, 
Your forgiveness for this pair, the author invites, 
Whom necessity, nc^t inclination, unites. 



LUCILE. 21 

Alfred. 

The tale is soon spoken. 
She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. 

What next? 
She reproached. I retorted. Of course she 

was vex*d. 
I was vex'd that she was so. She sulk'd. So 

did I. 
If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd ready to cry. 
I was contrite, submissive. She soften 'd. I 

hardened. 
At noon I was banish'd. At eve I was par- 
don 'd. 
She said I had no heart. I said she had no 

reason. 
I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd I 

talk'd treason. 
In short, my dear fellow, 'twas time, as you see, 
Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 

'Twas she 
By whom to that crisis the matter was brought. 
She released me. I linger'd. I linger'd, she 

thought. 
With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of 

course. 
The occasion to fly in a rage, mount my horse. 
And declare myself uncomprehended. And so 
We parted. The rest of the story you know. 

John. 
No, indeed. 

Alfred. 
Well, we parted. Of course we could not 
Continue to meet, as before, in one spot. 



22 LUCILE. 

You conceive it was awkward? Even Don 

Ferdinando 
Can do, you remember, no more than he can do. 
I think that I acted exceedingly well, 
Considering the time when this rupture befell, 
For Paris was charming just then. It deranged 
All my plans for the winter. I ask'd to be 

changed — 
Wrote for Naples, then vacant — obtained it — 

and so 
Join'd my new post at once ; but scarce reached 

it, when lo ! 
My first news from Paris informs me Lucile 
Is ill, and in danger. Conceive what I feel. 
I fly back. I find her recovered, but yet 
Looking pale. I am seized with a contrite re- 
gret; 
I ask to renew the engagement. 

John. 

And she? 
Alfred. 

Reflects, but declines. We part, swearing to 

be ^ 

Friends ever, friends only. All that sort of 

thing! 
We each keep our letters ... a portrait . . . 

a ring. 
With a pledge to return them whenever the 

one 
Or the other shall call for them back. 

John. 

Pray go on. 



LUCILE. 23 

Alfred. 

My story is finished. Of course I enjoin 

On Lucile all those thousand good maxims we 

coin 
To supply the grim deficit found in our days, 
When love leaves them bankrupt. I preach. 

She obeys. 
She goes out in the world ; takes to dancing 

once more — 
A pleasure she rarely indulged in before. 
I go back to my post, and collect (I must own 
'Tis a taste I had never before, my dear John) 
Antiques and small Elzevirs. Heigho! now. 

Jack. 
You know all. 

John (after a pause). 

You are really resolved to go back? 

Alfred. 
Eh, where? 

John. 

To that worst of all places — the past. 
You remember Lot's wife? 

Alfred. 

'Twas a promise when last 
We parted. My honor is pledged to it? 

John. 

Well, 
What is it you wish me to do? 



24 LUCILE. 

Alfred. 

You must tell 
Matilda, I meant to have call'd — to leave word — 
To explain — but the time was so pressing — 

John. 

My lord, 
Your lordship's obedient! I really can't do . . . 

Alfred. 

You wish then to break off my marriage? 

John. 

No, no! 
But, indeed, I can't see why yourself you need 

take 
These letters. 

Alfred. 

Not see? would you have me, then, break 
A promise my honor is pledged to? 

John (humming). 

**Off, off 
And away! said the stranger" . . . 

Alfred. 

Oh, good! oh, you scoff! 

John. 

At what, my dear Alfred? 

Alfred. 

At all things! 
John. 

Indeed? 



LUCILE. , 25 

Alfred. 

Yes ; I see that your heart is as dry as a reed ; 
That the dew of your youth is rubb'd off you; 

I see 
You have no feeling left in you, even for me ! 
At honor you jest; you are cold as a stone 
To the warm voice of friendship. Belief you 

have none; 
You have lost faith in all things. You carry a 

blight 
About with you everywhere. Yes, at the sight 
Of such callous indifference, who could be 

calm? 
I must leave you at once. Jack, or else the last 

balm 
That is left me in Gilead you'll turn into gall. 
Heartless, cold, unconcern'd ... 

John. 

Have you done? Is that all? 

Well, then, listen to me! I presume when you 
you made 

Up your mind to propose to Miss Darcy, you 
weigh 'd 

All the drawbacks against the equivalent gains, 

Ere you finally settled the point. What re- 
mains 

But to stick to your choice? You want money : 
'tis here. 

A settled position : 'tis yours. A career: 

You secure it. A wife, young, and pretty as 
rich. 



26 LUCILE. 

Whom all men will envy you. Why must you 
itch 

To be running away, on the eve of all this, 

To a woman whom never for once did you miss 

All these years since you left her? Who knows 
what may hap? 

This letter — to me — is a palpable trap. 

The woman has changed since you knew her. 
Perchance 

She yet seeks to renew her youth's broken 
romance, 

When women begin to feel youth and their 
beauty 

Slip from them, they count it a sort of a duty 

To let nothing else slip away unsecured 

Which these, while they lasted, might once 
have procured, 

Lucile's a coquette to the end of her fingers, 

I will stake my last farthing. Perhaps the 
wish lingers 

To recall the once reckless, indifferent lover 

To the feet he has left; let intrigue now re- 
cover 

What truth could not keep. *Twere a ven- 
geance, no doubt — 

A triumph ; — but why must you bring it about? 

You are risking the substance of all that you 
schemed 

To obtain; and for what? some mad dream you 
have dream'd. 

Alfred. 

But there's nothing to risk. You exaggerate, 
Jack, 



LUCILE. 27 

You mistake. In three days, at the most, I am 
back. 

John. 

Ay, but how? . . . discontented, unsettled, 
upset, 

Bearing with you a comfortless twinge of re- 
gret; 

Preoccupied, sulky, and likely enough 

To make your betrothed break off all in a huff. 

Three days, do you say? But in three days who 
knows, 

What may happen? I don't, nor do you, I 
suppose. 



Of all the good things in this good world around 

us, 
The one most abundantly furnish 'd and found 

us, 
And which for that reason we least care about. 
And can best spare our friends, is good coun- 
sel, no doubt. 
But advice, when 'tis sought from a friend 

(though civility 
May forbid to avow it), means mere liability 
In the bill we already have drawn on Remorse, 
Which we deem that a true friend is bound to 

indorse. 
A mere lecture on debt from that friend is a 

bore. 
Thus, the better his cousin's advice was, the 

more 



28 LUCILE. 

Alfred Vargrave with angry resentment o^ 

posed it. 
And, having the worst of the contest, he closed 

it 
With so firm a resolve his bad ground to main- 
tain, 
That, sadly perceiving resistance was vain, 
And argument fruitless, the amiable Jack 
Came to terms and assisted his cousin to pack 
A slender valise (the one small condescension 
Which his final remonstrance obtained) whose 

dimension 
Excluded large outfits ; and, cursing his stars, 

he 
Shook hands with his friend and returned to 

Miss Darcy. 
Lord Alfred, when last to the window he turn'd 

VI. 

Ere he locked up and quitted his chamber, dis- 
cerned 
Matilda ride by, with her cheek beaming 

bright 
In what Virgil has call'd, * 'Youth's purpureal 

light" 
{I like the expression, and can't find a better). 
He sigh'd as he looked at her. Did he regret 

her? 
In her habit and hat, with her glad golden hair. 
As airy and blithe as a blithe bird in air, 
And her arch rosy lips, and her eager blue 

eyes, 
With her little impertinent look of surprise, 



k \ 



LUCILE. 29 

And her round youthful figure, and a fair neck 

below 
The dark drooping feather, as radiant as 

snow, — 
I can only declare, that if I had the chance 
Of passing three days in the exquisite glance 
Of those eyes, or caressing the hand that now 

petted 
That fine English mare, I should much have 

regretted 
Whatever might lose me one little half-hour 
Of a pastime so pleasant, when once in my 

power. 
For, if one drop of milk from the bright Milky 

Way 
Could turn into a woman, 'twould look, I dare 

say, 
Not more fresh than Matilda was looking that 

day. 

VII. 

But, whatever the feeling that prompted the 

sigh 
With which Alfred Vargrave now watch 'd her 

ride by, 
I can only affirm that, in watching her ride. 
As he turned from the window, he certainly 

sigh'd. 



30 LUCILE. 

CANTO II. 



Letter from Lord Alfred Vargrave to 

THE COMTESSE DE NeVERS. 

**BiGORRE, Tuesday. 
**Your note, Madam, reach 'd me to-day, at 

Bigorre, 
And commands (need I add?) my obedience. 

Before 
The night I shall be at Serchon — where a line. 
If sent to Duval's, the hotel where I dine. 
Will find me, awaiting your orders. Receive 
My respects. 

** Yours sincerely, 

**A. Vargrave. 

**I leave 
In an hour. ' ' 

II. 

In an hour from the time he wrote this^ 
Alfred Vargrave, in tracking a mountain abyss^ 
Gave the rein to his steed and his thoughts, 

and pursued, 
In pursuing his course through the blue soli- 
tude. 
The reflections that journey gave rise to. 

And here 
(Because, without some such precaution, I fear 
You might fail to distinguish them each from 

the rest 
Of the world they belong to ; whose captives 
are drest. 



LUCILE. 81 

As our convicts, precisely the same one and 

all, 
While the coat cut for Peter is passed on to 

Paul) 
I resolve, one by one, when I pick from the 

mass 
The persons I want, as before you they pass, 
To label them broadly in plain black and white 
On the backs of them. Therefore, whilst yet 

he's in sight, 
I first label my hero. 

III. 

The age is gone o'er 
When a man may in all things be all. We have 

more 
Painters, poets, musicians, and artists,no doubt. 
Than the great Cinquecento gave birth to ; but 

out 
Of a million of mere dilettanti, when, when 
Will a new Leonardo rise on our ken? 
He is gone with the age which begat him. Our 

own 
Is too vast, and too complex, for one man alone 
To embody its purpose, and hold it shut close 
In the palm of his hand. There were giants 

in those 
Irreclaimable days ; but in these days of ours. 
In dividing the work, we distribute the powers. 
Yet a dwarf on a dead giant's shoulders sees 

more 
Than the 'live giant's eyesight availed to 

explore ; 



32 LUCILE. 

And in life's lengthen 'd alphabet what used to 

be 
To our sires X Y Z is to us A B C. 
A Vanini is roasted alive for his pains, 
But a Bacon conies after and piclis up his brains. 
A Bruno is angrily seized by the throttle 
And hunted about by thy ghost, Aristotle, 
Till a More or Lavater steps into his place : 
Then the world turns and makes an admiring 

grimace. 
Once the men were so great and so few, they 

appear. 
Through a distant Olympian atmosphere, 
Like vast Caryatids upholding the age. 
Now the men are so many and small, disengage 
One man from the million to mark him, next 

moment 
The crowd sweeps him hurriedly out of your 

comment ; 
And since we seek vainly (to praise in our 

songs) 
'Mid our fellows the size which to heroes 

belongs. 
We take the whole age for a hero, in want 
Of a better : and still, in its favor, descant 
On the strength and the beauty which, failing 

to find 
In any one man, we ascribe to mankind. 

IV. 

Alfred Vargrave was one of those men who 

achieve 
So little, because of the much they conceive. 



LUCILE. 33 

With irresolute finger he knock'd at each one 
Of the doorways of life, and abided in none. 
His course, by each star that would cross it, 

was set, 
And whatever he did he was sure to regret. 
That target, discuss'd by the travelers of old. 
Which to one appear'd argent, to one appeared 

gold, 
To him, ever lingering on Doubt's dizzy mar- 
gent, 
Appear'd in one moment both golden and 

argent. 
The man who seeks one thing in life, and but 

one, 
May hope to achieve it before life be done ; 
But he who seeks all things, wherever he goes. 
Only reaps from the hopes which around him 

he sows 
A harvest of barren regrets. And the worm 
That crawls on in the dust to the defiaite term 
Of its creepmg existence, and sees nothing 

more 
Than the path it pursues till its creeping be 

o'er, 
In its limited vision, is happier far 
Than the Half-Sage, whose course, fix'd by no 

friendly star 
Is by each star distracted in turn, and who 

knows 
Each will still be as distant wherever he goes. 

V. 

Both brilliant and brittle, both bold and 
unstable, 

3 Lacile 



34 LUCILE. 

Indecisive yet keen, Alfred Vargrave seemed 

able 
To dazzle, but not to illumine mankind. 
A vigorous, various, versatile mind; 
A character wavering, fitful, uncertain. 
As the shadow that shakes o'er a luminous 

curtain. 
Vague, fitting, but on it forever impressing 
The shape of some substance at which you 

stand guessing: 
When you said, ''AH is worthless and weak 

here, " behold ! 
Into sight on a sudden there seem'd to unfold 
Great outlines of strenuous truth in the man : 
When you said, ''This is genius,'* the outlines 

grew wan. 
And his life, though in all things so gifted and 

skill'd. 
Was, at best, but a promise which nothing ful- 

fiird. 

VI. 

In the budding of youth, ere wild winds can 

deflower 
The shut leaves of man's life, round the germ 

of his power 
Yet folded, his life had been earnest. Alas! 
In that life one occasion, one moment, there 

was 
When this earnestness might, with the life-sap 

of vouth, 
Lusty fruitage have borne in his manhood's 

full growth ; 



LUCILE. 35 

But it found him too soon, when his nature 
was still 

The delicate toy of too pliant a will, 

The boisterous wind of the world to resist. 

Or the frost of the world's wintry wisdom. 

He miss'd 

That occasion, too rathe in its advent. 

* Since then 

He had made it a law, in his commerce with 
men, 

That intensity in him, which only left sore 

The heart it disturb 'd, to repel and ignore. 

And thus, as some Prince by his subjects 
deposed. 

Whose strength he, by seeking to crush it, dis- 
closed. 

In resigning the power he lack'd power to sup- 
port, 

Turns his back upon courts, with a sneer at the 
court, 

In his converse this man for sel-comfort 
appeal' d 

To a cynic denial of all he conceal' d 

In the instincts and feelings belied by his 
words. 

Words, however, are things : and the man who 
accords 

To liis language the license to outrage his soul. 

Is controlled by the words he disdains to con- 
trol. 

And, therefore, he seem'd in the deeds of each 
day, 

The light code proclaimed on his lips to obey; 



36 LUCILE. 

And, the slave of each whim, followed willfully 

aught 
That perchance fool'd the fancy, or flatter'd 

the thought. 
Yet, indeed, deep within him, the spirits of 

truth, 
Vast, vague aspirations, the powers of his 

youth, 
Lived and breathed, and made moan — stirr*d 

themselves— strove to start 
Into deeds — though deposed, in that Hades, 

his heart. 
Like those antique Theogonies ruin'd and 

hurl'd, 
Under clefts of the hills, which, convulsing the 

world, 
Heaved, in earthquake, their heads the rent 

caverns above, 
To trouble at times in the light court of Jove 
All its frivolous gods, with an undefined awe. 
Of wrong' d rebel powers that own'd not their 

law. 
For his sake, I am fain to believe that, if born 
To some lowlier rank (from the world's languid 

scorn 
Secured by the world's stern resistance), where 

strife. 
Strife and toil, and not pleasure, gave purpose 

to life, 
He possibly might have contrived to attain 
Not eminence only, but worth. So, again, 
Had he been of his own house the first-born, 

each gift 
Of a mind many-gifted had gone to uplift 



LUCILE. 37 

A great name by a name's greatest uses. 

But there 
He stood isolated, opposed, as it were. 
To life's great realities; part of no plan, 
And if ever a nobler and happier man 
He might hope to become, that alone could be 

when 
With all that is real in life and in men 
What was real in him should have been recon- 
ciled ; 
When each influence now from experience 

exiled 
Should have seized on his being combined with 

his nature. 
And form'd, as by fusion, a new human crea- 
ture : 
As when those airy elements viewless to sight 
(The amalgam of which, if our science be right, 
The germ of this populous planet doth fold) 
Unite in the glass of the chemist, behold! 
Where a void seem'd before, there a substance 

appears, 
From the fusion of forces whence issued the 
spheres ! 

VII. 

But the permanent cause why his life failed and 
miss'd 

The full value of life was, — where man should 
resist 

The world, which man's genius is call'd to com- 
mand. 

He gave way, less from lack of the power to 
withstand, 



38 LUCILE. 

Than from lack of the resolute will to retain 
Those strongholds of life which the world 

strives to gain. 
Let this character go in the old-fashion'd way,. 
With the moral thereof tightly tacked to it. 

Say— 
**Let any man once show the world that he 

feels 
Afraid of its bark, and 'twill fly at his heels: 
Let him fearlessly face it, 'twill leave him 

alone : 
But 'twill fawn at his feet if he flings it a bone.'* 

VIII. 

The moon of September, now half at the full,. 
Was unfolding from darkness and dreamland 

the lull 
Of the quiet blue air, where the many-faced 

hills 
Watch 'd, well-pleased, their fair slaves, the 

light, foam-footed rills. 
Dance and sing down the steep marble stairs of 

their courts, 
And gracefully fashion a thousand sweet sports. 
Lord Alfred (by this on his journeying far) 
Was pensively puffing his Lopez cigar 
And brokenly humming an old opera strain. 
And thinking, perchance, of those castles in 

Spain 
Which that long rocky barrier hid from his 

sight ; 
When suddenly, out of the neighboring night, 
A horseman emerged from a fold of the hill, 



LUCILE. 39 

And so startled his steed that was winding at 

will 
Up the thin dizzy strip of a pathway which led 
O'er the mountain — the reins on its neck, and 

its head 
Hanging lazily forward — that, but for a hand 
Light and ready, yet firm, in familiar com- 
mand, 
Both rider and horse might have been in a trice 
Hurrd horribly over the grim precipice. 

IX. 

As soon as the moment's alarm had subsided, 
And the oath with which nothing can find 

unprovided 
A thoroughbred Englishman, safely exploded, 
Lord Alfred unbent (as Apollo his bow did 
Now and then) his erectness; and looking, 

not ruder 
Than such inroad would warrant, survey 'd the 

intruder, 
Whose arrival so nearly cut short in his glory 
My hero, and finished abruptly this story. 



The stranger, a man of his own age or less. 
Well mounted, and simple though rich in his 

dress, 
Wore his beard and mustache in the fashion of 

France. 
His face, which was pale, gathered force from 

the glance 
Of a pair of dark, vivid, and eloquent eyes. 
With a gest of apology, touch 'd with surprise, 



40 LUCILE. 

He lifted his hat, bow'd, and courteously made 
Some excuse in such well-cadenced French as 

betray' d 
At the first word he spoke, the Parisian. 

XI. 

I swear I have wandered about in the world 

everywhere ; 
From many strange mouths have heard many 

strange tongues ; 
Strain'd with many strange idioms my lips and 

my lungs; 
Walk 'din many a far land, regretting my own; 
In many a language groaned many a groan ; 
And have often had reason to curse those wild 

fellows 
Who built the high house at which Heaven 

turn 'd jealous. 
Making human audacity stumble and stammer 
When seized by the throat in the hard gripe of 

Grammar. 
But the language of languages dearest to me 
Is that in which once ma toute cherie^ 
When, together, we bent o'er your nosegay for 

hours, 
You explain 'd what was silently said by the 

flowers, 
And, selecting the sweetest of all, sent a flame 
Through my heart, as, in laughing, you mur- 
mur 'd/<? taime, 

XII. 

The Italians have voices like peacocks; the 
Spanish 



LUCILE. 41 

Smell, I fancy, of garlic; the Swedish and 

Danish 
Have something too Runic, too rough and un- 
shod, in 
Their accents for mouths not descended from 

Odin; 
German gives me a cold in the head, sets me 

wheezing 
And coughing; and Russian is nothing but 

sneezing; 
But, by Belus and Babel ! I never have heard. 
And I never shall hear (I well know it) one 

word. 
Of that delicate idiom of Paris without 
Feeling morally sure, beyond question or doubt 
By the wild way in which my heart inwardly 

flutter'd 
That my heart's native tongue to my heart 

had been utter'd. 
And whene'er I hear French spoken as I 

approve 
I feel myself quietly falling in love. 

XIII. 

Lord Alfred, on hearing the stranger, appeased 
By a something, an accent, a cadence, which 

pleased 
His ear with that pledge of good breeding 

which tells 
At once of the world in whose fellowship dwells 
The speaker that owns it, was glad to remark 
In the horseman a man one might meet after 

dark 
Without fear. 

4 Lacile 



42 LUCILE. 

And thus, not disagreeably impress 'd, 
As it seem'd, with each other, the two men 

abreast 
Rode on slowly a moment. 

XIV. 

Stranger. 

I see. Sir, you are 
A smoker. Allow me ! 

Alfred. 

Pray take a cigar. 

Stranger. 

Many thanks ! . . Such cigars are a luxury here. 
Do you go to Serchon? 

Alfred. 

Yes; and you? 

Stranger. 

Yes. I fear, 
Since our road is the same, that our journey 

must be 
Somewhat closer than is our acquaintance. 

You see 
How narrow the path is. I'm tempted to ask 
Your permission to finish (no difficult task !) 
The cigar you have given me (really a prize !) 
In your company. 

Alfred. 

Charmed, Sir, to find your road lies 
In the way of my own inclinations ! Indeed 
The dream of your nation I find in this weed. 



LUCILE. 43 

In the distant Savannahs a talisman grows 
That makes all men brothers that use it . . . 

who knows? 
That blaze which erewhile from the Boulevart 

outbroke, 
It has ended where wisdom begins, Sir, — in 

smoke. 
Messieurs Lozez (whatever your publicists 

write) 
Have done more in their way human kind to 

unite, 
Perchance, than ten Prudhons. 

Stranger. 

Yes. Ah, what a scene ! 

Alfred. 

Humph ! Nature is here too pretentious. Her 

mien 
Is too haughty. One likes to be coax'd, not 

compell'd, 
To the notice such beauty resents if withheld, 
She seems to be saying too plainly, *' Admire 

me!" 
And I answer, *'Yes, madam, I do: but you 

tire me. ' ' 

Stranger. 

That sunset, just now though . . 

Alfred. 

A very old trick! 
One would think that the sun by this time 
must be sick 



44 LUCILE. 

Of blushing at what, by this time, he must 

know 
Too well to be shocked by — this world. 

Stranger. 

Ah, 'tis so 
With us all. 'Tis the sinner that best knew 

the world 
At Twenty, whose lip is, at sixty, most curl'd 
With disdain of its follies. You stay at Ser- 
chon? 

Alfred. 

A day or two only. 

Stranger. 

The season is done. 

Alfred. 
Already ! 

Stranger. 

'Twas shorter this year than the last. 
Folly soon wears her shoes out. She dances 

so fast. 
We are all of us tired. 

Alfred. 

You know the place well. 

Stranger. 

I have been there two seasons. 

Alfred. 

Pray who is the Belle 
Of the Baths at this moment? 



LUCILE. 45 

Stranger. ' 

The same who has been 
The belle of all places in which she is seen ; 
The belle of all Paris last winter ; last spring 
The belle of all Baden. 

Alfred. 
An tincommon thing ! 

Stranger. 

Sir, an uncommon beauty ! . . . I rather should 

say, 
An uncommon character. Truly, each day 
One meets women whose beauty is equal to 

hers, 
But none with the charm of Lucile de Nevers. 

Alfred. 

Madame de Nevers! 

Stranger. 

Do you know her? 

Alfred. 

I know. 
Or, rather, I knew her — a long time ago. 
I almost forget. . . 

Stranger. 

What a wit ! what a grace 
In her language! her movements! what play 

in her face ! 
And yet what a sadness she seems to conceal ! 



46 LUCILE. 

' Alfred. 
You speak like a lover. 

Stranger. 

I speak as I feel, 
But not like a lover. What interests me so 
In Lucile, at the same time forbids me, I 

know, 
To give to that interest, whatever the sensa- 
tion. 
The name we men give to an hour's admiration 
A night's passing passion, an actress's eyes, 
A dancing girl's ankles, a fine lady's sighs. 

Alfred. 

Yes, I quite comprehend. But this sadness—- 

this shade 
Which you speak of ? ... it almost would make 

me afraid 
Your gay countrymen. Sir, less adroit must 

have grown. 
Since when, as a stripling, at Paris, I own 
I found in them terrible rivals, — if yet 
They have all lack'd the skill to console this 

regret 
(If regret be the word I should use), or fulfill 
This desire (if desire be the word), which 

seems still 
To endure unappeased. For I take it for 

granted. 
From all that you say, that the will was not 

wanted. 



LUCILE. 47 



XV. 



The stranger replied, not without irritation, 
**I have heard that an Englishman — one of 

your nation 
I presume — and if so, I must beg you, indeed, 
To excuse the contempt which I . . " 

Alfred. 

Pray, Sir, proceed 
With your tale. My compatriot, what was his 
crime? 

Stranger. 

Oh, nothing! His folly was not so sublime 
As to merit that term. If I blamed him just 

now, 
It was not for the sin, but the silliness. 

Alfred. 

How? 
Stranger. 

I own I hate Botany. Still, ... I admit, 
Although I myself have no passion for it, 
And do not understand, yet I cannot despise 
The cold man of science', who walks with his 

eyes 
All alert through a garden of flowers, and 

strips 
The lilies' gold tongues, and the roses' red 

lips, 
With a ruthless dissection ; since he, I suppose. 
Has some purpose beyond the mere mischief 

he does. 



48 LUCILE. 

But the stnpid and mischievous boy, that up- 
roots 

The exotics, and tramples the tender young 
shoots, 

For a boy's brutal pastime, and only because 

He knows no distinction 'twixt heartsease and 
haws, — 

One would wish, for the sake of each nursling 
so nipp'd. 

To catch the young rascal and have him well 
whipp'd! 

Alfred. 

Some compatriot of mine, do I then under- 
stand. 

With a cold Northern heart, and a rude Eng- 
lish hand. 

Has injured your Rosebud of France? 

Stranger. 

Sir, I know 
Blit little, or nothing. Yet some faces show 
The last, act of a tragedy in their regard: 
Though the first scenes be wanting, it yet is 

not hard 
To divine, more or less, what the plot may have 

been, 
And what sort of actors have pass'd o'er the 

scene. 
And whenever I gaze on the face of Lucile, 
With its pensive and passionless languor, I 

feel 
That some feeling hath burnt there . . burnt 

out, and burnt up 



LUCILE. 49 

Health and hope. So you feel when you gaze 
down the cup 

Of extinguished volcanoes; you judge of the 
fire 

Once there, by the ravage you see ; — the de- 
sire, 

By the apathy left in its wake, and that sense 

Of a moral, immovable, mute impotence. 

Alfred. 

Humph! . . . I see you have finished, at last, 

your cigar; 
Can I offer another? 

Stranger. 

No, thank you. We are 
Not two miles from Serchon. 

Alfred. 

You know the road well? 

Stranger. 

I have often been over it. 

XVL 

Here a pause fell 
On their converse. Still musingly on, side by 

side. 
In the moonlight, the two men continued to 

ride 
Down the dim mountain pathway. But each 

for the rest 
Of their journey, although they still rode oui 

abreast, 

4 



50 LUCILE. 

Continued to follow in silence the train 

Of the different feelings that haunted his brain; 

And each, as though roused from a deep rev- 

ery, 
Almost shouted, descending the mountain, to 

see 
Burst at once on the moonlight the silvery 

Baths, 
The long lime-tree alley, the dark gleaming 

paths, 
With the lamps twinkling through them — the 

quaint wooden roofs — 
The little white houses. 

The clatter of hoofs, 
And the music of wandering bands, up the 

walls 
Of the steep hanging hill, at remote intervals 
Reached them, cross'd by the sound of the 

clacking of whips. 
And here and there, faintly, through serpen- 
tine slips 
Of verdant rose-gardens deep-sheltered with 

screens 
Of airy acacias and dark evergreens. 
The}'- could mark the white dresses and catch 

the light songs 
Of the lovely Parisians that wander'd in 

throngs. 
Led by Laughter and Love through the old 

eventide 
Down the dream-haunted valley, or up the hill- 
side. 



LUCILE. 51 



XTII. 



At length, at the door of the inn THerisson 
(Pray go there, if ever yon go to Serchon!), 
The two horsemen, well pleased to have reach'd 

it, alighted 
And exchanged their last greetings. 

The Frenchman invited 
Lord Alfred to dinner. Lord Alfred declined. 
He had letters to write, and felt tired. So he 

dined 
In his own rooms that night. 

With an unquiet eye 
He watched his companion depart; nor knew 

why, 
Beyond all accountable reason or measure, 
He felt in his breast such a sovran displeasure. 
"The fellow's good-looking,** he murmur'd at 

last, 
"And yet not a coxcomb. ** Some ghost of the 

past 
Vex*d him still. 

"If he love her,*' he thought, "let him win 
her.*' 
Then he turn*d to the future — and order'd his 

dinner. 

XVIII. 

O hour of all hours, the most bless'd upon 

earth. 
Blessed hour of our dinners ! 

The land of his birth; 
The face of his first love; the bills that he 

owes ; 
The twaddle of friends and the venom of foes: 



52 LUCILE. 

The sermon he heard when to church he last 
went; 

The money he borrowed, the money he spent ; — 

All of these things a man, I believe, may for- 
get, 

And not be the worse for forgetting ; but yet 

Never, never, oh, never! earth's luckiest sin- 
ner 

Hath unpunished forgotten the hour of his din- 
ner! 

Indigestion, that conscience of every bad stom- 
ach. 

Shall relentlessly gnaw and pursue him with 
some ache 

Or some pain; and trouble, remorseless, his 
best ease, 

As the Furies once troubled the sleep of 
Orestes. 

XIX. 

>^We may live without poetry, music and art ; 

We may live without conscience, and live with- 
out heart; 

We may live without friends; we may live 
without books; 

But civilized man cannot live without cooks. 

He may live without books, — what is knowl- 
edge but grieving? 

He may live without hope, — what is hope but 
deceiving? 

He may live without love, — what is passion but 
pining? 

But where is the man that can live without 
dining? 



LUCILE. 53 

XX. 

Lord Alfred found, waiting his coming, a note 
From Lucile. 

'*Yotir last letter has reach 'd me,*' she 
wrote. 
"This evening, alas! I must go to the ball. 
And shall not be at home till too late for your 

call; 
But to-morrow, at any rate, sans faute, at One 
You will find me at home, and will find me 

alone. 
Meanwhile, let me thank you sincerely, milord. 
For the honor with which you adhere to your 

word. 
Yes, I thank you. Lord Alfred! To-morrow 

then. 

XXI. 

I find myself terribly puzzled to tell 

The feelings with which Alfred Vargrave flung 

down 
This note, as he pour'd out his wine. I must 

own 
That I think he, himself, could have hardly 

explained 
Those feelings exactly, 

*'Yes, yes,'* as he drain'd 
The glass down, he mutter 'd, ''Jack's right, 

after all. 
The coquette!" 

*'Does milord mean to go to the ball?" 
Ask'd the waiter, who linger'd. 

''Perhaps. — I don't know. 



54 LUCILE. 

You may keep me a ticket, in case I should 
go." 

XXII. 

Oh, better, no doubt, is a dinner of herbs. 
When season 'd by love, which no rancor dis- 
turbs, 
And sweeten'd by all that's sweetest in life, 
Than turbot, bisque, ortolans, eaten in strife! 
But if, out of humor, and hungry, alone, 
A man should sit down to a dinner, each one 
Of the dishes of which the cook chooses to spoil 
With a horrible mixture of garlic and oil, 
The chances are ten against one, I must own. 
He gets up as ill-temper'd as when he sat down. 
And if any reader this fact to dispute is 
Disposed, I say . . . ''''Allium edat cicutis 
Noceiitiiis!'' 

Over the fruit and the wine 
Undisturb'd the wasp settled. The evening 

was fine. 
Lord Alfred his chair by the window had set, 
And languidly lighted his small cigarette. 
The window was open. The warm air without 
Waved the flame of the candles. The moths 

were about. 
In the gloom he sat gloomy. 

XXIII. 

Gay sounds from below 
Floated up like faint echoes of joys long ago. 
And night deepened apace; through the dark 

avenues 



LUCILE. 55 

The lamps twinkled bright ; and by threes and 
by twos, 

The idlers of Serchon were strolling at will, 

As Lord Alfred could see from the cool win- 
dow-sill, 

Where his gaze, as he languidly turn'd it, fell 
o'er 

His late traveling companion, now passing be- 
fore 

The inn, at the window of which he still sat, 

In full toilet, — boots varnish'd, and snowy cra- 
vat, 

Gayly smoothing and buttoning a yellow kid 
glove. 

As he turned down the avenue. 

Watching above. 

From his window, the stranger, who stopped as 
he walk'd 

To mix with those groups and now nodded, 
now talk'd. 

To the young Paris dandies. Lord Alfred dis- 
cerned 

By the way hats were lifted, and glances were 
turned. 

That this unknown acquaintance, now bound 
for the ball. 

Was a person of rank or of fashion; for all 

Whom he bow'd to in passing, or stopped with 
and chatter'd, 

Walk'd on with a look which implied . . . *'I 
feel flatter'd!" 



66 LUCILE. 



XXIV. 



His form was soon lost in the distance and 
gloom. 

XXV. 

Lord Alfred still sat by himself in his room. 
He had finish'd, one after the other, a dozen 
Or more cigarettes. He had thought of his 

cousin : 
He had thought of Matilda, and thought of 

Lucile : 
He had thought about many things; thought a 

great deal 
Of himself, of his past life, his future, his 

present : 
He had thought of the moon, neither full moon 

nor crescent ; 
Of the gay world, so sad! life, so sweet and so 

sour! 
He had thought, too, of glory, and fortune, 

and power; 
Thought of love, and the country, and sym- 
pathy, and 
A poet's asylum in some distant land: 
Thought of man in the abstract, and woman, 

no doubt. 
In particular; also he had thought much about 
His digestion, his debts, and his dinner: and 

last 
He thought that the night would be stupidly 

pass'd 
If he thought any more of such matters at all; 
So he rose and resolved to set out for the ball. 



LUCILE. 67 



XXVI. 



I believe, ere he finished his tardy toilet, 
That Lord Alfred had spoil' d, and flting by in 

a pet, 
Half a dozen white neckcloths, and looked for 

the nonce 
Twenty times in the glass, if he look'd in it 

once. 
I believe that he split up, in drawing them on, 
Three pair of pale lavender gloves, one by one. 
And this is the reason, no doubt, that at last, 
When he reached the Casino, although he 

walk'd fast. 
He heard, as he hurriedly entered the door, 
The church clock struck T\Yelve. 

xxvii. 

The last waltz was just o*er. 
The chaperons and dancers were all in a flutter. 
A crowd blocked the door ; and a buzz and a 

mutter 
Went about in the room as a young man, 

whose face 
Lord Alfred had seen ere he enter'd that place, 
But a few hours ago, through the perfumed 

and warm 
Flowery porch, with a lady that lean'd on his 

arm 
Like a queen in a fable of old fairy days, 
Left the ballroom. 



68 LUCILE. 



XXVIII. 



The hubbub of comment and praise 
Reach'd Lord Alfred as just then he entered. 

''Mafoir' 
Said a Frenchman beside him, . . . **That 

lucky Luvois 
Has obtained all the gifts of the gods . . . rank 

and wealth, 
And good looks, and then such inexhaustible 

health! 
He that hath shall have more ; and this truth, 

I surmise. 
Is the cause why, to-night, by the beautiful 

eyes 
Of la charmante Lucile more distinguished than 

all. 
He so gayly goes off with the belle of the 

ball.'' 
**Is it true,*' asked a lady aggressively fat. 
Who, fierce as a female Leviathan, sat 
By another that look'd like a needle, all steel 
And tenuity — '* Luvois will marry Lucile?" 
The needle seem'd jerk'd by a virulent twitch, 
As though it were bent upon driving a stitch 
Through somebody's character. 

''Madam," replied. 
Interposing, a young man who sat by their 

side. 
And was languidly fanning his face with his 

hat, 
**I am ready to bet my new Tilbury that. 
If Luvois has proposed, the Comtesse has 
refused. ' ' 



LUCILE. 69 

The fat and thin ladies were highly amused. 
** Refused! . . . what! a young Duke, not 

thirty, my dear. 
With at least half a million (what is it?) a 

year!*' 
**That may be," said the third; '*yet I know 

some time since 
Castelmar was refused, though as rich, and a 

Prince. 
But Luvois, who was never before in his life 
In love with a woman who was not a wife, 
Is now certainly serious. ' ' 

XXIX. 

The music once more 
Recommenced. 

XXX. 

Said Lord Alfred, **This ball is a bore! 
And return 'd to the inn, somewhat worse than 
before. 

XXXI. 

There, whilst musing, he lean'd the dark 

valley above. 
Through the warm land were wandering the 

spirits of love, 
A soft breeze in the white window drapery 

stirred; 
In the blossom 'd acacia the lone cricket chirr 'd ; 
► The scent of the roses fell faint o'er the night, 
And the moon on the mountain was dreaming 

in light. 
Repose, and yet rapture! that pensive wild 

nature 



60 LUCILE. 

Impregnate with passion in each breathing 

feature ! 
A stone's throw from thence, through the large 

lime trees peep'd 
In a garden of roses, a white chalet, steeped 
In the moonbeams. The windows oped down 

to the lawn ; 
The casements w^ere open ; the curtains were 

drawn ; 
Lights stream'd from the inside; and with 

them the sound 
Of music and song. In the garden, around 
A table with fruits, wine, tea, ices, there set, 
Half a dozen young men and young women 

were met. 
Light, laughter, and voices, and music all 

stream'd 
Through the quiet-leaved limes. At the win- 
dow there seem'd 
For one moment the outline, familiar and fair, 
Of a white dress, white neck, and soft dusky 

hair 
Which Lord Alfred remember'd . . . a moment 

or so 
It hover'd, then pass'd into shadow; and slow 
The soft notes, from a tender piano upflung. 
Floated forth, and a voice unforgotten thus 

sung: — 

**Hear a song that was born in the land of my 

birth ! 
The anchors are lifted the fair ship is free, 
And the shouts of the mariners float in its 

mirth 



LUCILE. 61 

'Twixt the light in the sky and the light on 
the sea. 

*'And this ship is a world. She is freighted 
with souls, 
She is freighted with merchandise : proudly 
she sails 
With the Labor that stores, and the Will that 
controls 
The gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales. 

*'From the gardens of Pleasure, where reddens 
the rose, 
And the scent of the cedar is faint on the 
air, 
Past the harbors of Traffic, sublimely she goes, 
Man's hopes o'er the world of the waters to 
bear ! 

"Where the cheer from the harbors of Traffic 
is heard. 
Where the gardens of Pleasure fade fast on 
the sight. 
O'er the rose, o'er the cedar, there passes a 
bird, 
*Tis the Paradise Bird, never known to alight. 

*'And that bird, bright and bold as a Poet's 

desire, 
Roams her own native heavens, the realms 

of her birth. 
There she soars like a seraph, she shines like a 

fire. 



62 LUCILE. 

And her plumage hath never been sullied by 
earth, 

**And the mariners greet her; there's song on 
each lip. 
For that bird of good omen, and joy in each 
eye. 
And the ship and the bird, and the bird and 
the ship, 
Together go forth over ocean and sky. 

**Fast, fast fades the land! far the rose-gar- 
dens flee, 
And far fleet the harbors. In regions 
unknown 
The ship is alone on a desert of sea. 
And the bird in a desert of sky is alone. 

*'In those regions unknown, o'er that desert of 
air, 
Down that desert of waters — tremendous in 
wrath — 
The storm-wind Euroclydon leaps from his lair, 
And cleaves, through the waves of the ocean, 
his path. 

**And the bird in the cloud, and the ship on 

the wave, 

Overtaken, are beaten about by wild gales ; 

And the mariners all rush their cargo to save, 

Of the gold in the ingots, the silk irt the 

bales. 



LUCILE. 63 

**Lo! a wonder, which never before hath been 

heard, 

For it never before hath been given to sight, 

On the ship hath descended the Paradise 

Bird, 

The Paradise Bird, never known to alight! 

**The bird which the mariners bless'd, when 
each lip 
Had a song from the omen that gladden'd 
each eye \ 
The bright bird for shelter hath flown to the 
ship 
From the wrath on the sea and the wrath in 
the sky. 

**But the mariners heed not the bird any more. 
They are felling the masts — they are cutting 
the sails ; 
Some are working, some weeping, and some 
wrangling o'er 
Their gold in the ingots, their silk in the 
bales. 

^*Soul of men are on board; wealth of man in 
the hold; 
And the storm-wind Enroclydon sweeps to 
his prey ; 
And who heeds the bird? *Save the silk and 
the gold!' 
And the bird from her shelter the gust 
sweeps away ! 



d4 LUCILE. 

* * Poor Paradise Bird ! on her lone flight once 
more 
Back again in the wake of the wind she is 
driven — 
To be 'whelmed in the storm, or above it to 
soar, 
And, if rescued from ocean, to vanish in 
heaven ! 

**And the ship rides the waters, and weathers 
the gales: 
From the haven she nears the rejoicing is 
heard, 
All hands are at work on the ingots, the bales, 
Save a child, sitting lonely, who misses — the 
Bird." 



CANTO III. 

I. 

With stout iron shoes be my Pegasus shod ! 
For my road is a rough one : flint, stubble, and 

clod. 
Blue clay, and black quagmire, brambles no 

few, 
And I gallop up-hill, now. 

There's terror that's true 
In that tale of a youth who, one night at a 

revel, 
Amidst music and mirth lured and wiled by 

some devil, 



LUCILE. 65 

Followed ever one mask through the mad mas- 
querade, 
Till, pursued to some chamber deserted ('tis 

said), 
He unmask 'd, with a kiss, the strange lady, 

and stood 
Face to face with a thing not of flesh nor of 

blood. 
In this Mask of the Passions, call'd Life, there's 

no human 
Emotion, though mask'd, or in man or in 

woman. 
But, when faced and unmask 'd, it will leave 

us at last 
Struck by some supernatural aspect aghast. 
For truth is appalling and eldritch, as seen 
By this world's artificial lamplights, and we 

screen 
From our sight the strange vision that troubles 

our life. 
Alas ! why is Genius forever at strife 
With the world, which, despite the world's 

self, it ennobles? 
Why is it that Genius perplexes and troubles 
And offends the effete life it comes to renew? 
'Tis the terror of truth ! 'tis that Genius is true. 

II. 
Lucile de Nevers (if her riddle I read) 
Was a woman of genius: whose genius, indeed. 
With her life was at war. Once, but once, in 

that life 
The chance had been hers to escape from this 

strife 

5 Lucile 



66 LUCILE. 

In herself ; finding peace in the life of another 

From the passionate wants she, in hers, failed 
to smother. 

But the chance fell too soon, when the crude 
restless power 

Which had been to her nature so fatal a dower, 

Only wearied the man it yet haunted and 
thrall'd; 

And that moment, once lost, had been never 
recall* d. 

Yet it left her heart sore : and to shelter her 
heart 

From approach she then sought, in that deli- 
cate art 

Of concealment, those thousand adroit strat- 
egies 

Of feminine wit, which repel while they please, 

A weapon, at once, and a shield to conceal 

And defend all that women can earnestly feel. 

Thus, striving her instincts to hide and 
repress, 

She felt frightened at times by her very suc- 
cess: 

She pined for the hill-tops, the clouds, and the 
stars: 

Golden wires may annoy us as much as steel 
bars 

If they keep us behind prison- windows: impas- 
sion'd 

Her heart rose and burst the light cage she 
had fash ion 'd 

Out of glittering trifles around it. 



LUCILE. 67 

Unknown 
To herself, all her instincts, without hesita- 
tion, 
Embraced the idea of self-immolation. 
The strong spirit in her, had her life but been 

blended 
With some man's whose heart had her own 

comprehended, 
All its wealth at his feet would have lavishly 

thrown. 
For him she had struggled and striven alone ; 
For him had aspired; in him had transfused 
All the gladness and grace of her nature ; and 

used 
For him only the spells of its delicate power : 
Like the ministering fairy that brings from 

her bower 
To some maze all the treasures, whose use the 

fond elf, 
More enriched by her love, disregards for her- 
self. 
But standing apart, as she ever had done. 
And her genius, which needed a vent, finding 

none 
In the broad fields of action thrown wide to 

man's power, 
She unconsciously made it her bulwark and 

tower. 
And built in it her refuge, whence lightly she 

hurl'd 
Her contempt at the fashions and forms of the 

world. 



68 LUCILE. 

And the permanent cause why she now miss'd 

and fail'd 
That firm hold upon life she so keenly assail'd, 
Was, in all those diurnal occasions that place 
Say — the world and the woman opposed face 

to face, 
Where the woman must yield, she, refusing* to 

stir, 

Offended the world, which in turn wounded 

her. 
As before, in the old-fashion'd manner, I fit 
To this character, also, its moral; to wit. 
Say — the world is a nettle ; disturb it, it stings: 
Grasp it firmly, it stings not. On one of two 

things, 
If you would not be stung, it behooves you to 

settle : 
Avoid it, or crush it. She crush'd not the nettle ; 
For she could not ; nor would she avoid it ; she 

tried 
With the weak hand of woman to thrust it 

aside. 
And it stung her. A woman is too slight a 

thing 
To trample the world without feeling its sting. 

in. 

One lodges but simply at Serchon; yet, thanks 
To the season that changes forever the banks 
Of the blossoming mountains, and shifts the 

light cloud 
O'er the valley, and hushes or rouses the loud 



LUCILE. 69 

Wind that wails in the pines, or creeps mur- 
muring down 
The dark evergreen slopes to the slumbering 

town, 
And the torrent that falls, faintly heard from 

afar. 
And the blue- bells that purple the dapple-gray 

scaur, 
One sees with each month of the many-faced 

year 
A thousand sweet changes of beauty appear. 
The chalet where dwelt the Comtesse de 

Nevers 
Rested half up the base of a mountain of firs, 
In a garden of roses, reveal'd to the road, 
Yet withdrawn from its noise: 'twas a peace- 
ful abode. 
And the walls, and the roofs, with their gables 

like hoods. 
Which the monks wear, were built of sweet 

resinous woods. 
The sunlight of noon, as Lord Alfred ascended 
The steep garden paths, every odor had 

blended 
Of the ardent carnations, and faint heliotropes. 
With the balms floated down from the dark 

wooded slopes: 
A light breeze at the windows was playing 

about, 
And the white curtains floated, now in, and 

now out. 
The house was all hush'd when he rang at the 

door, 



70 LUCILE. 

Which was open'd to him in a moment, or 

more, 
By an old nodding negress, whose sable head 

shined 
In the sun like a cocoa-nut polished in Ind, 
* Neath the ^nov^y foulard which about it was 

wound, 
Lord Alfred sprang forward at once, with a 

bound, 
He remember'd the nurse of Lucile. The old 

dame, 
Whose teeth and whose eyes used to beam 

when he came, 
With a boy's eager step, in the blithe days of 

yore. 
To pass, unannounced, her young mistress's 

door. 
The old woman had fondled Lucile on her 

knee 
When she left, as an infant, far over the sea. 
In India the tomb of a mother, unknown, 
To pine, a pale floweret, in great Paris town. 
She had soothed the child's sobs on her breast, 

when she read 
The letter that told her her father was dead. 
An astute, shrewd adventurer, who, like 

Ulysses, 
Had studied men, cities, laws, wars, the abysses 
Of statecraft, with varying fortunes, was he. 
He had wander'd the world through, by land 

and by sea, 
And knew it in most of its phases. Strong 

will, 



LUCILE. 71 

Subtle tact, and soft manners, had given him 

skill 
To conciliate Fortune, and courage to brave 
Her displeasure. Thrice shipwrecked, and cast 

by the wave 
On his own quick resources, they rarely had 

fail'd 
His command: often baffled, he ever prevailed, 
In his combat with fate: to-day flatter'd and 

fed 
By monarchs, to-morrow in search of mere 

bread. 
The offspring of times trouble-haunted he came 
Of a family ruin'd, yet noble in name. 
He lost sight of his fortune, at twenty, in 

France ; 
And, half statesman, half soldier, and wholly 

Freelance, 
Had wander'd in search of it, over the world. 
Into India. 

But scarce had the nomad unfurl'd 
His wandering tent at Mysore, in the smile 
Of a Rajah (whose court he controU'd for a 

while. 
And whose council he prompted and govern'd 

by stealth) ; 
Scarce, indeed, had he wedded an Indian of 

wealth. 
Who died giving birth to this daughter, be- 
fore 
He was borne to the tomb of his wife at 

Mysore. 
His fortune, which fell to his orphan, per- 
chance 



72 LUCILE. 

Had secured her a home with his sister in 

France, 
A lone woman, the last of the race left. Lncile 
Neither felt, nor affected, the wish to conceal 
The half-Eastern blood, which appear'd to 

bequeath 
(Reveal 'd now and then, though but rarely, 

beneath 
That outward repose that conceard it in her) 
A something half wild to her strange character. 
The nurse with the orphan, awhile broken- 
hearted, 
At the door of a convent in Paris had parted. 
But later, once more, with her mistress she 

tarried, 
When the girl, by that grim maiden aunt, had 

been married 
To a dreary old Count, who had sullenly died. 
With no claim on her tears — she had wept as 

a bride. 
Said Lord Alfred, ** Your mistress expects me. " 

The crone 
Opened the drawing-room door, and there left 

him alone. 

V. 

O'er the soft atmosphere of this temple of 

grace 
Rested silence and perfume. No sound reached 

the place. 
In the white curtains waver' d the delicate shade 
Of the heaving acacias, through which the 

breeze play'd. 



LUCILE. 73 

O'er the smooth wooden floor, polished dark 

as a glass, 
Fragrant white Indian matting allowed you to 

pass. 
In light olive baskets, by window and door, 
Some hung from the ceiling, some crowding 

the floor. 
Rich wild flowers pluck 'd by Lucile from the 

hill, 
Seem'd the room with their passionate pres- 
ence to fill: 
Blue aconite, hid in white roses, reposed; 
The deep belladona its vermeil disclosed; 
And the frail saponaire, and tender blue-bell, 
And the purple valerian, — each child of the fell 
And the solitude flourished, fed fair from the 

source 
Of waters the huntsman scarce heeds in his 

course ; 
Where the chamois and izard, with delicate 

hoof. 
Pause or flit through the pinnacled silence 

aloof. 

VI. 

Here you felt, by the sense of its beauty 
reposed, 

That you stood in a shrine of sweet thoughts. 
Half enclosed 

In the light slept the flowers ; all was pure and 
at rest ; 

All peaceful; all modest; all seem'd self -pos- 
sessed, 

6 Lucile 



74 LUCILE. 

And aware of the silence. No vestige nor 

trace 
Of a young woman's coquetry troubled the 

place. 
He stood by the window. A cloud pass'd the 

sun. 
A light breeze uplifted the leaves, one by one. 
Just then Lucile entered the room, undiscern'd 
By Lord Alfred, whose face to the window was 

turn'd. 
In a strange revery. 

The time was, when Lucile, 
In beholding that man, could not help but 

reveal 
The rapture, the fear, which wrench'd out 

every nerve 
In the heart of the girl from the woman's 

reserve. 
And now — she gazed at him, calm, smiling, — 

perchance 
Indifferent. 

VII. 

Indifferently turning his glance, 

Alfred Vargrave encounter'd that gaze un- 
aware. 

O'er a bodice snow-white stream'd her soft 
dusky hair ; 

A rose-bud half blown in her hand ; in her 
eyes 

A half-pensive smile. 

A sharp cry of surprise 

Escaped from his lips: some unknown agita- 
tion, 



LUCILE. 75 

An invincible, a strange palpitation, 
Confused his ingenious and frivolous wit; 
Overtook, and entangled, and paralyzed it. 
That wit so complacent and docile, that ever 
Lightly came at the call of the lightest en- 
deavor. 
Ready coin'd, and availably current as gold, 
Which, secure of its value, so fluently roU'd 
In free circulation from hand on to hand 
For the usage of all, at a moment's command; 
For once it rebell'd, it was mute and unstirr'd. 
And he look*d at Lucile without speaking a 
word. 

VIII. 

Perhaps what so troubled him was, that the 

face 
On whose features he gazed had no more than 

a trace 
Of the face his remembrance had imaged for 

years. 
Yes ! the face he remember'd was faded with 

tears : 
Grief had famished the figure, and dimm'd the 

dark eyes, 
And starved the pale lips, too acquainted with 

sighs 
And that tender, and gracious, and fOnd coquet- 

terie 
Of a woman who knows her least ribbon to be 
Something dear to the lips that so warmly 

caress 
Every sacred detail of her exquisite dress, 
In the careless toilet of Lucile, — then too sad 



76 LUCILE. 

To care aught to her changeable beauty to 

add — 
Lord Alfred had never admired before ! 
Alas! poor Lucile, in those weak days of yore, 
Had neglected herself, never heeding, or 

thinking 
(While the blossom and bloom of her beauty 

were shrinking) 
That sorrow can beautify only the heart — 
Not the face — of a woman ; and can but impart 
Its endearment to one that has suffered. In 

truth 
Grief hath beauty for grief; but gay youth 

loves gay youth. 

IX. 

The woman that now met, unshrinking, his 

gaze, 
Seem'd to bask in the silent but sumptuous haze 
Of that soft second summer, more ripe than 

the first. 
Which returns when the bud to the blossom 

hath burst. 
In despite of the stormiest April. Lucile 
Had acquired that matchless unconscious 

appeal 
To the homage which none but a churl would 

withhold — 
That caressing and exquisite grace — never 

bold, 
Ever present — which just a few women possess. 
From a healthful repose, undisturb'd by the 

stress 
Of unquiet emotk)ns, her soft cheek had drawn 



LUCILE. 77 

A freshness as pure as the twilight of dawn. 
Her figure, though slight, had revived every- 
where 
The luxurious proportions of youth ; and her 

hair — 
Once shorn as an offering to passionate love — 
Now floated or rested redundant above 
Her airy pure forehead and throat; gathered 

loose 
Under which, by one violet knot, the profuse 
Milk-white folds of a cool modest garment 

reposed. 
Rippled faint by the breast they half hid, half 

disclosed. 
And her simple attire thus in all things reveal' d 
The fine art which so artfully all things con- 
cealed. 



Lord Alfred, who never conceived that Lucile 
Could have look'd so enchanting, felt tempted 

to kneel 
At her feet, and her pardon with passion im- 
plore ; 
But the calm smile that met him sufficed to 

restore 
The pride and the bitterness needed to meet 
The occasion with dignity due and discreet. 

XI. 

** Madam," — thus he began with a voice 

reassured, — 
*' You see that your latest command has secured 
My immediate obedience — presuming I may 



78 LUCILE. 

Consider my freedom restored from this day. ' ' — 
*'I had thought, " said Lucile, with a smile gay 

yet sad, 
**That your freedom from me not a fetter has 

had. 
Indeed ! ... in my chains have you rested till 

now? 
I had not so flattered myself, I avow!" 
'*For Heaven's sake, Madam," Lord Alfred 

replied, 
*'Do not jest! has the moment no sadness?" 

he sigh'd. 
** *Tis an ancient tradition," she answer'd, **a 

tale 
Often told — a position too sure to prevail 
In the end of all legends of love. If we wrote, 
When we first love, foreseeing that hour yet 

remote. 
Wherein of necessity each would recall 
From the other the poor foolish records of all 
Those emotions, whose pain, when recorded, 

seem'd bliss, 
Should we write as we wrote? But one thinks 

not of this ! 
At Twenty (who does not at Twenty?) we write 
Believing eternal the frail vows we plight ; 
And we smile with a confident pity, above 
The vulgar results of all poor human love : 
For we deem, with that vanity common to 

youth. 
Because what we feel in our bosoms, in truth, 
Is novel to us — that 'tis novel to earth, 
And will prove the exception, in durance and 

worth. 



LUCILE. 79 

To the great law to which all on earth must 

incline. 
The error was noble, the vanity fine. 
Shall we blame it because we survive it? ah, 

no; 
*Twas the youth of our youth, my lord, is it 

not so?" 

XII. 

Lord Alfred was mute. He remember'd her 
yet 

A child — the weak sport of each moment's re- 
gret, 

Blindly yielding herself to the errors of life, 

The deceptions of youth, and borne down by 
the strife 

And the tumult of passion ; the tremulous toy 

Of each transient emotion of grief or of joy. 

But to watch her pronounce the death-warrant 
of all 

The illusions of life — lift, unflinching, the pall 

From the bier of the dead Past — that woman 
so fair, 

And so young, yet her own self-survivor ; who 
there 

Traced her life's epitaph with a finger so cold! 

'Twas a picture that pain'd his self-love to be- 
hold. 

He himself knew — none better — the things to 
be said 

Upon subjects like this. Yet he bow'd down 
his head: 

And as thus, with a trouble he could not com- 
mand, 



80 LUCILE. 

He paused, crumpling the letters he held in his 

hand, 
**You know me enough," she continued, ''or 

what 
I would say is, you yet recollect (do you not. 
Lord Alfred?) enough of my nature, to know 
That these pledges of what was perhaps long 

ago 
A foolish affection, I do not recall 
From those motives of prudence which actuate 

all 
Or most women when their love ceases. In- 
deed, 
If you have such a doubt, to dispel it I need 
But remind you that ten years these letters 

have rested 
Unreclaim'd in your hands." A reproach 

seem'd suggested 
By these words. To meet it. Lord Alfred 

look'd up. 
(His gaze had been fix'd on a blue Sevres cup 
With a look of profound connoisseurship — a 

smile 
Of singular interest and care, all this while.) 
He look'd up, and look'd long in the face of 

Lucile, 
To mark if that face by a sign would reveal 
At the thought of Miss Darcy the least jealous 

pain. 
He look'd keenly and long, yet he look'd there 

in vain. 
"You are generous, Madam," he murmur'd at 

last. 
And into his voice a light irony pass'd. 



LUCILE. 8r 

He had look'd for reproaches, and fully arranged 
His forces. But straightway the enemy 

changed 
The position. 

XIII. 

**Come!" gayly Lucile interposed, 
With a smile whose divinely deep sweetness 

disclosed 
Some depth in her nature he never had known, 
While she tenderly laid her light hand on his 

own, 
*'Do not think I abuse the occasion. We gain 
Justice, judgment, with years, or else years 

are in vain. 
From me not a single reproach can you hear. 
I have sinn'd to myself — to the world — nay, I 

fear 
To you chiefly. The woman who loves should, 

indeed, 
Be the friend of the man that she loves. She 

should heed. 
Not her selfish and often mistaken desires, 
But his interest whose fate her own interest 

inspires; 
And, rather than seek to allure, for her sake, 
His life down the turbulent, fanciful wake 
Of impossible destinies, use all her art 
That his place in the world find its place in her 

heart. 
I, alas! — I perceived not this truth till too late ; 
I tormented your youth, I have darkened your 

fate. 

6 



82 LUCILE. 

Forgive me the ill I have done for the sake 
Of its long expiation!" 

XIV. 

Lord Alfred, awake 
Seem*d to wander from dream on to dream. 

In that seat 
Where he sat as a criminal, ready to meet 
His accuser, he found himself turn'd by some 

change, 
As surprising and all unexpected as strange. 
To the judge from whose mercy indulgence 

was sought 
All the world's foolish pride in that moment 

was naught; 
He felt all his plausible theories posed; 
And, thrill'd by the beauty of nature disclosed 
In the pathos of all he had witness' d, his head 
He bow'd, and faint words self-reproachfully 

said, 
As he lifted her hand to his lips. 'Twas a hand 
White, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and 

bland. 
The hand of a woman is often, in youth, 
Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat 

graceless, in truth; 
Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm, 
Or as sorrow has cross'd the life-line in the 

palm? 

XV. 

The more that he looked, that he listen'd, the 

more 
He discovered perfections unnoticed before. 
Less saliant than once^ less poetic, perchance, 



LUCILE. 83 

This woman who thus had survived the romance 
That had made him its hero, and breathed him 

its sighs, 
Seem'd more charming a thousand times o'er 

to his eyes. 
Together they talk'd of the years since when 

last 
They parted, contrasting the present, the past 
Yet no memory marr'd their light converse. 

Lucile 
Question'd much, with the interest a sister 

might feel 
Of Lord Alfred's new life, — of Miss Darcy — 

her face. 
Her temper, accomplishments — pausing to 

trace 
The advantage derived from a hymen so fit. 
Of herself, she recounted with humor and wit 
Her journeys, her daily employments, the lands 
She had seen, and the books she had read, and 

the hands 
She had shaken. 

In all that she said there appeared 
An amiable irony. Laughing, she rear'd 
The temple of reason, with ever a touch 
Of light scorn at her work, reveal' d only so 

much 
As there gleams, in the thyrsus that Baccha- 
nals bear. 
Through the blooms of a garland the point of 

a spear. 
But above, and beneath, and beyond all of this, 
To that soul, whose experience had paralyzed 

bliss, 



84 LUGILE. 

A benignant indulgence, to all things resign'd, 
A justice, a sweetness, a meekness of mind. 
Gave a luminous beauty, as tender and faint 
And serene as the halo encircling a saint. 

XVI. 

Unobserved b)'- Lord Alfred the time fleeted by. 

To each novel sensation spontaneously 

He abandon'd himself with that ardor so 

strange 
Which belongs to a mind grown accustom 'd to 

change. 
He sought, with well-practiced and delicate art, 
To surprise from Lucile the true state of her 

heart ; 
But his efforts were vain, and the woman as 

ever, 
More adroit than the man, baffled every en- 
deavor. 
Vv'hen he deem'd he touch'd on some chord in 

her being, 
At the touch it dissolved, and was gone. Ever 

fleeing 
As ever he near it advanced, when he thought 
To have seized, and proceeded to analyze aught 
Of the moral existence, the absolute soul. 
Light as vapor the phantom escaped his con- 
trol. 

XVII. 

From the hall, on a sudden, a sharp ring was 

heard. 
In the passage without a quick footstep there 

stirr'd. 



LUCILE. 85 

At the door knock *d the negress, and thrust in 
her head, 

**The Duke de Luvois had just enter'd, " she 
said, 

**And insisted" — 

''The Duke!" cried Lucile (as she spoke, 

The Duke's step, approaching, a light echo 
woke). 

*'Say I do not receive till the evening. Ex- 
plain," 

As she glanced at Lord Alfred, she added again, 

''I have business of private importance." 

There came 

O'er Lord Alfred at once, at the sound of that 
name 

An invincible sense of vexation. He turn'd 

To Lucile, and he fancied he faintly discern'd 

On her face an indefinite look of confusion. 

On his mind instantaneously flash'd the con- 
clusion 

That his presence had caused it. 

He said, with a sneer 

WJiich he could not repress, "Let not me inter- 
fere 

With the claims on your time, lady ! when you 
are free 

From more pleasant engagements, allow me to 
see 

And to wait on you later. ' ' 

The words were not said 

Ere he wished to recall them. He bitterly read 

The mistake he had made in Lucile's flashing 
eye. 

Inclining her head, as in haughty reply. 



86 LUCILE. 

More reproachful perchance than all uttered 

rebuke, 
She said merely, resuming her seat, *'Tell the 

Duke 
He may enter." 

And vex'd with his own words and hers, 
Alfred Vargrave bow'd low to Lucile de 

Nevers, 
Pass'd the casement and enter'd the garden. 

Before 
His shadow was fled the Duke stood at the door. 

XVIII. 

When left to his thoughts in the garden alone, 
Alfred Vargrave stood, strange to himself. 

With dull tone 
Of importance, through cities of rose and car- 
nation, 
Went the bee on his business from station to 

station. 
The minute mirth of summer was shrill all 

around ; 
Its incessant small voices like stings seem'd to 

sound 
On his sore angry sense. He stood grieving 

the hot 
Solid sun with his shadow, nor stirred from the 

spot 
The last look of Lucile still bewilder'd, per- 

plex'd. 
And reproach'd him. The Duke's visit goaded 

and vex'd. 
He had not yet given the letters. Again 
He must visit Lucile. He resolved to remain 



LUCILE. 87 

Where he was till the Duke went. In short, 

he would stay, 
Were it only to know when the Duke went 

away. 
But just as he form'd this resolve, he perceived 
Approaching toward him,* between the thick- 
leaved 
And luxuriant laurels, Lucile and the Duke. 
Thus surprised, his first thought was to seek 

for some nook 
Whence he might, unobserved, from the gar- 
den retreat. 
They had not yet seen him. The sound of 

their feet 
And their voices had warn'd him in time. They 

were walking 
Towards him. The Duke (a true Frenchman) 

was talking 
With the action of Talma. He saw at a glance 
That they barr'd the sole path to the gateway. 

No chance 
Of escape save an instant concealment! Deep- 

dipp*d 
In thick foliage, an arbor stood near. In he 

slipped, 
Saved from sight, as in front of that ambush 

they pass'd, 
Still conversing. Beneath a laburnum at last 
They paused, and sat down on a bench in the 

shade, 
So close that he could not but hear what they 

said. 



88 LUCILE. 

XIX. 
LUCILE. 

Duke, I scarcely conceive . . . 
Luvois. 

Ah, forgive ! . . . I desired 
So deeply to see you to-day. You retired 
So early last night from the ball . . . this whole 

week 
I have seen you pale, silent, preoccupied . . . 

speak, 
Speak, Lucile, and forgive me! ... I know 

that I am 
A rash fool — but I love you! I love you, 

madame. 
More than language can say! Do not deem, 

O Lucile, 
That the love I no longer have strength to 

conceal 
Is a passing caprice! It is strange to my 

nature. 
It has made me, unknown to myself, a new 

creature. 
I implore you to sanction and save the new life 
Which I lay at your feet with this prayer — Be 

my wife ; 
Stoop, and raise me! 

Lord Alfred could scarcely restrain 
The sudden, acute pang of anger and pain 
With which he had heard this. As though to 

some wind 
The leaves of the hush'd, windless laurels 

behind 



LUCILE. 89 

The two thus in converse were suddenly stirr'd. 
The sound half betrayed him. They started. 

He heard 
The low voice of Lucile ; but so faint was its 

tone 
That her answer escaped him, 

Luvois hurried on, 
As though in remonstrance with what had 

been spoken. 
*'Nay, I know it, Lucile! but your heart was 

not broken 
By the trial in which all its fibres were 

proved, 
Love, perchance, you mistrust, yet you need 

to be loved. 
You mistake your own feelings. I fear you 

mistake 
What so ill I interpret, those feelings which 

make 
Words like these vague and feeble. Whatever 

your heart 
May have suffered of yore, this can only impart 
A pity profound to the love which I feel, 
Hush! hush! I know all. Tell me nothing, 

Lucile. " 
**You know all, Duke?" she said; *'well, then, 

know that, is truth, 
I have learn 'd from the rude lesson taught to 

my youth 
From my own heart to shelter my life: to 

mistrust 
The heart of another. We are what we must, 
And not what we would be. I know that one 

hour 



90 LUCILE. 

Assures not another. The will and the power 
Are diverse. ' * 

**0 madam!" he answer'd, *'you fence 
With a feeling you know to be true and intense. 
*Tis not my life, Lucile, that I plead for alone: 
If your nature I know, 'tis no less for your 

own. 
That nature will prey on itself; it was made 
To influence others. Consider," he said, 
''That genius craves power — what scope for it 

here? 
Gifts less noble to me give command of that 

sphere 
In which genius is power. Such gifts you 

despise? 
But you do not disdain what such gifts realize ! 
I offer you. Lady, a name not unknown — 
A fortune which worthless, without you, is 

grown — 
All my life at your feet I lay down — at your 

feet 
A heart which for you, and you only, can 

beat." 

Lucile. 

That heart, Duke, that life — I respect both. 

The name 
And position you offer, and all that you claim 
In behalf of their nobler employment, I feel 
To deserve what, in turn, I now ask you — 

Luvois. 

Lucile ! 
Lucile. 
I ask you to leave me — 



LUCILE. 9L 

Luvois. 

You do not reject? 

LUCILE. 

I ask you to leave me the time to reflect. 

Luvois. 
You ask me? — 

LUCILE. 

—The time to reflect. 

Luvois. 

Say — One v^ord! 
May I hope? 

, The reply of Lucile was not heard 
By Lord Alfred ; for just then she rose, and 

moved on 
The Duke bow'd his lips o'er her hand, and 
was gone. 

XX. 

Not a sound save the birds in the bushes. 

And when 
Alfred Vargrave reeVd forth to the sunlight 

again, 
He just saw the white robe of the woman recede 
As she entered the house. 

Scarcely conscious indeed 
Of his steps, he too foUow'd, and enter'd. 

XXI. 

He enter'd 
Unnoticed; Lucile never stirr'd: so concen- 
tred 
And wholly absorbed in her thoughts she 
appear' d. 



92 LUCILE. 

Her back to the window was turn'd. As he 

near'd 
The sofa, her face from the glass was reflected. 
Her dark eyes were fix'd on the ground. Pale, 

dejected, 
And lost in profound meditation she seem'd. 
Softly, silently, over her droop'd shoulders 

stream'd 
The afternoon sunlight. The cry of alarm 
And surprise which escaped her, as now on her 

arm 
Alfred Vargrave let fall a hand icily cold 
And clammy as death, all too cruelly told 
How far he had been from her thoughts. 

XXII. 

All his cheek 
Was disturb'd with the effort it cost him to 

speak. 
*'It was not my fault. I have heard all," he 

said. 
'*Now^ the letters — and farewell, Lucile ! When 

you wed 
May—" 

The sentence broke short, like a weapon that 

snaps 
When the weight of a man is upon it. 

** Perhaps," 
Said Lucile (her sole answer reveal'd in the 

flush 
Of quick color which up to her brows seem'd 

to rush 
In reply to those few broken words), '* this fare- 
well 



LUCILE. 93 

Is our last, Alfred Vargrave, in life. Who can 
tell? 

Let us part without bitterness. Here are your 
letters. 

Be assured I retain you no more in my fet- 
ters !*'— 

She laughed, as she said this, a little sad laugh. 

And stretched out her hand with the letters. 
And half 

Wroth to feel his wrath rise, and unable to 
trust 

His own powers of restraint, in his bosom he 
thrust 

The packet she gave, with a short angry sigh, 

Bow'd his head, and departed without a reply. 

XXIII. 

And Lucile was alone. And the men of the 

world 
Were gone back to the world. And the world's 

self was furrd 
Far away from the heart of the woman. Her 

hand 
Droop'd, and from it, unloosed from their frail 

silken band, 
Fell those early love-letters, strewn, scatter'd, 

and shed 
At her feet— life's lost blossoms! Dejected, 

her head 
On her bosom was bow'd. Her gaze vaguely 

stray'd o'er 
Those strewn records of passionate moments 

no more. 



94 LUCILE. 

From each pa^e to her sight leapt some word 

that belied 
The composure with which she that day had 

denied 
Every claim on her heart to those poor perish 'd 

years. 
They avenged themselves now, and she burst 

into tears. 



CANTO V. 

I. t 

Letter from Cousin John to Cousin Alfred. 

**BiGORRE, Thursday. 

**Time up, you rascal! Come back, or be 
hang'd. 

Matilda grows peevish. Her m=other har- 
angued 

For a whole hour this morning about you. 
The deuce ! 

What on earth can I say to you? — nothing's of 
use. 

And the blame of the whole of your shocking 
behavior 

Falls on me, sir! Come back, — do you hear? 
— or I leave your 

Affairs, and abjure you forever. Come back 

To your anxious betrothed; and perplex'd 

''Cousin Jack/" 



LUCILE. 95 



II. 



Alfred needed, in truth, no entreaties from 

John 
To increase his impatience to fly from Serchon. 
All the place was now fraught with sensations 

of pain 
Which, whilst in it, he strove to escape from 

in vain 
A wild instinct warn'd him to fly from a place 
Where he felt that some fatal event, swift of 

pace, 
Was approaching his life. In despite his 

endeavor 
To think of Matilda, her image forever 
Was effaced from his fancy by that of Lucile. 
From the ground which he stood on he felt 

himself reel. 
Scared, alarmed by those feelings to which, on 

the day 
Just before, all his heart had so soon given 

way. 
When he caught, with a strange sense of fear, 

for assistance 
At what was, till then, the great fact in exist- 
ence, 
'Twas a phantom he grasp'd. 

III. 

Having sent for his guide, 
He ordered his horse, and determined to ride 
Back forthwith to Bigorre. 

Then, the guide, who well knew 



96 LUCILE. 

Every haunt of those hills, said the wild lake 

of Oo 
Lay a league from Serchon ; and suggested a 

track 
By the lake to Bigorre, which, transversing the 

back 
Of the mountain, avoided a circuit between 
Two long valleys; and thinking, ** Perchance 

change of scene 
May create change of thought,*' Alfred Var- 

grave agreed. 
Mounted horse, and set forth to Bigorre at full 

speed. 

IV. 

His guide rode beside him. 

The king of the guides ! 
The gallant Bernard ! ever boldly he rides, 
Ever gayly he sings ! For to him, from of old, 
The hills have confided their secrets, and told 
Where the white partridge lies, and the cock 

o' the woods; 
Where the izard flits fine through the cold sol- 
itudes ; 
Where the bear lurks perdu; and the lynx on 

his prey 
At nightfall descends, when the mountains are 

gray; 
Where the sassafras blooms, and the blue-bell 

is born, 
And the wild rhododendron first reddens at 

morn; 
Where the source of the waters is fine as a 

thread ; 




' Pray take a cigar.' " — Page 42, 

Luc'ile. 



LUCILE. 97 

How the storm on the wild Maladetta is 

spread ; 
Where the thunder is hoarded, the snows lie 

asleep, 
Whence the torrents are fed, and the cataracts 

leap; 
And, familiarly known in the hamlets, the 

vales 
Have whispered to him all their thousand love 

tales ; 
He has laugh'd with the girls, he has leap'd 

with the boys; 
Ever blithe, ever bold, ever boon, he enjoys 
An existence untroubled by envy or strife. 
While he feeds on the dews and the juices of 

life, 
And so lightly he sings, and so gayly he rides. 
For Bernard le Sauteur is the king of all guides ! 

v. 

But Bernard found, that day, neither song nor 

love-tale, 
Nor adventure, nor laughter, nor legend avail 
To arouse from his deep and profound reverie 
Him that silent beside him rode fast as could 

be. 

VI. 

Ascending the mountain they slacken 'd their 

pace. 
And the marvelous prospect each moment 

changed face. 
The breezy and pure inspirations of morn 

7 Lucile 



98 LUCILE. 

Breathed about them. The scrap*d, ravaged 
mountains, all worn 

By the torrents, whose course they watched 
faintly meander. 

Were alive with the diamonded shy salamander. 

They paused o'er the bosom of purple abysses, 

And wound through a region of green wilder- 
nesses; 

The waters went whirling above and around. 

The forests hung heap'd in their shadows pro- 
found, 

Here the Larboust, and there Aventin, Castel- 
lon, 

Which the Demon of Tempest, descending 
upon, 

Had wasted with fire, and the peaceful Cazeaux 

They mark'd, and far down in the sunshine 
below. 

Half dipp'd in a valley of airiest blue, 

The white happy homes of the village of Oo, 

Where the age is yet golden. 

And high overhead 

The wrecks of the combat of Titans were 
spread. 

Red granite and quartz, in the alchemic sun, 

Fused their splendors of crimson and crystal 
in one ; 

And deep in the moss gleam 'd the delicate 
shells. 

And the dew lingered fresh in the heavy hare- 
bells; 

The large violet burn'd; the campanula blue; 

And Autumn's own flower, the saffron, peer'd 
through 



LUCILE. 99 

The red-berried brambles and thick sassafras; 
And fragrant with thyme was the delicate 

grass ; 
And high up, and higher, and highest of all, 
The secular phantom of snow ! 

0*er the wall 
Of a gray sunless glen gaping drowsy below, 
That aerial specter, reveaVd in the glow 
Of the great golden dawn, hovers faint on the 

eye, 
And appears to grow in, and grow out of the 

sky, 
And plays with the fancy, and baffles the sight. 
Only reach 'd by the vast rosy ripple of light, 
And the cool star of eve, the Imperial Thing, 
Half unreal, like some mythological king 
That dominates all in a fable of old, 
Takes command of a valley as fair to behold 
As aught in old fables; and, seen or unseen, 
Dwells aloof over all, in the vast and serene 
Sacred sky, where the footsteps of spirits are 

furrd 
'Mid the clouds beyond which spreads the infin- 
ite world 
Of man's last aspirations, unfathom'd, untrod, 
Save by Even and Morn, and the angels of 
God. 

VII. 

Meanwhile, as they journeyed, that serpentine 

road. 
Now abruptly reversed, unexpectedly showed 
A gay cavalcade some few feet in advance. 



100 LUCILE. 

Alfred Vargrave's heart beat; for he saw at a 

glance 
The slight form of Lucile in the midst. His 

next look 
Show'd him, joyously ambling beside her, the 

Duke. 
The rest of the troop which had thus caught 

his ken 
He knew not, nor noticed them (women and 

men). 
They were laughing and talking together. 

Soon after 
His sudden appearance suspended their laugh- 
ter. 

VIII. 

*' You here! ... I imagined you far on your 

way 
To Bigorre!" . . . said Lucile. *'What has 

caused you to stay?" 
*'I am on my way to Bigorre," he replied, 
*'But, since my way would seem to be yours, 

let me ride 
For one moment beside you." And then, with 

a stoop 
At her ear, . . . *'and forgive me!" 

IX. 

By this time the troop 
Had regafeher'd its numbers. 

Lucile was as pale 
As the cloud 'neath their feet, on its way to 
the vale. 



LUCILE. 101 

The Duke had observed it, nor quitted her side, 
For even one moment, the whole of the ride. 
Alfred smiled as he thought, '*he is jealous of 

her!" 
And the thought of his jealousy added a spur 
To his firm resolution and effort to please. 
He talked much; was witty, and quite at his 

ease. 

X. 

After noontide, the clouds, which had traversed 

the east 
Half the day, gather'd closer, and rose and 

increased. 
The air changed and chill'd. As though out 

of the ground 
There ran up the trees a confused hissing sound, 
And the wind rose. The guides sniffed, like 

chamois, the air, 
And look'd at each other, and halted, and there 
Unbuckled the cloaks from the saddles. The 

white 
Aspens rustled, and turn'dup their frail leaves 

in fright. 
All announced the approach of the tempest. 

Erelong, 
Thick darkness descended the mountains 

among ; 
And a vivid, vindictive, and serpentine flash 
Gored the darkness, and shore it across with a 

gash. 
The rain fell in large heavy drops. And anon 
Broke the thunder. 



102 LUCILE. 

The horses took fright, everyone. 
The Duke*s in a moment was far out of sight. 
The guides whoop'd. The band was obliged 

to alight; 
And, dispersed up the perilous pathway, 

walk'd blind 
To the darkness before from the darkness 

behind. 

XI. 

And the Storm is abroad in the mountains ! 

He fills 
The crouch'd hollows and all the oracular hills 
With dread voices of power. A roused million 

or more 
Of wild echoes reluctantly rise from their hoary 
Immemorial ambush, and roll in the wake 
Of the cloud, whose reflection leaves vivid the 

lake. 
And the wind, that wild robber, for plunder 

descends 
From invisible lands, o*er those black moun- 
tain ends; 
He howls as he hounds down his prey; and his 

lash 
Tears the hair of the timorous wan mountain 

ash. 
That clings to the rocks, with her garments all 

torn, 
Like a woman in fear ; then he blows his hoarse 

horn 
And is off the fierce guide of destruction and 

terror. 



LUCILE. 103 

Up the desolate heig-hts, 'mid an intricate error 
Of mountain and mist. 

XII. 

There is war in the skies 
Lo! the black-winged legions of tempest arise 
O'er those sharp splinter 'd rocks that are 

gleaming below 
In the soft light, so fair and so fatal, as though 
Some seraph burn'd through them, the thun- 
der-bolt searching 
Which the black cloud unbosom 'd just now. 

Lo! the lurching 
And shivering pine-trees, like phantoms, that 

seem 
To waver above, in the dark; and yon stream, 
How it hurries and roars, on its way to the 

white 
And paralyzed lake there, appall'd at the sight 
Of the things seen in heaven ! 

XIII. 

Through the darkness and awe 
That had gathered around him. Lord Alfred 

now saw 
Reveal'd in the fierce and evanishing glare 
Of the lightning that momently pulsed through 

the air, 
A woman alone on a shelf of the hill. 
With her cheeks coldly propped on her hand, — 

and as still 
As the rock that she sat on, which beetled 

above 



104 LUCILE. 

The black lake beneath her. 

All terror, all love, 
Added speed to the instinct with which he 

rush'd on. 
For one moment the blue lightning swathed 

the whole stone 
In its lurid embrace : like the sleek dazzling 

snake 
That encircles a sorceress charm'd for her sake 
And luU'd b)^ her loveliness ; fawning, it play 'd 
And caressingly twined round the feet and the 

head 
Of the woman who sat there, undaunted and 

calm 
As the soul of that solitude, listing the psalm 
Of the plangent and laboring tempest roll slow 
From the caldron of midnight and vapor 

below, 
Next moment from bastion to bastion, all 

around. 
Of the siege-circled mountains, there tumbled 

the sound 
Of the battering thunder's indefinite peal. 
And Lord Alfred had sprung fo the feet of 

Lucile. 



XIV. 

She started. Once more, with its flickering 

wand. 
The lightning approach'd her. In terror, her 

hand 
Alfred Vargrave had seized within his ; and he 

felt 



LUCILE. . 105 

The light fingers that coldly and lingering 

dwelt 
In the grasp of his own, tremble faintly. 

*;See! See! 
Where the whirlwind hath stricken and 

strangled yon tree!" 
She exclaim 'd, . . . **like the passion that 

brings on its breath, 
To the being it embraces, destruction and 

death! 
Alfred Vargrave, the lightning is around you ! ' ' 

*'Lucile! 
I hear — I see — naught but yourself. I can 

feel 
Nothing here but your presence. My pride 

fights in vain 
With the truth that leaps from me. We two 

meet again 
'Neath yon terrible heaven that is watching 

above 
To avenge if I lie when I swear that I love, — 
And beneath yonder terrible heaven, at your 

feet 
I humble my head and my heart. I entreat 
Your pardon, Lucile, for the past — I implore 
For the future your mercy — implore it with 

more 
Of passion than prayer ever breathed. By the 

power 
Which invisibly touches us both in this hour. 
By the rights I have o'er you, Lucile, I de- 
mand — " 
**The rights!" . . . said Lucile, and drew 

from him her hand. 

8 Lucile 



106 LUCILE. 

'*Yes, the rights! for what greater to man 

may belong 
Than the right to repair in the future the 

wrong 
To the past? and the wrong I have done you, 

of yore, 
Hath bequeath'd to me all the sad right to 

restore, 
To retrieve, to amend! I, who injured your 

life 
Urge the right to repair it, Lucile! Be my 

wife. 
My guide, my good angel, my all upon earth, 
And accept, for the sake of what yet may give 

worth 
To my life, its contrition!'* 

XV. 

He paused, for there came 
O'er the cheek of Lucile a swift flush like the 

flame 
That illumined at moments the darkness o'er- 

head. 
With a voice faint and marr'd by emotion, she 

said, 
'*And your pledge to another?" 

XVI. 

"Hush, hush!" he exclaimed, 
**My honor will live where my love lives, un- 

shamed. 
'Twere poor honor indeed, to another to give 
That life of which you keep the heart. Could 

I live 



LUCILE. 107 

In the light of those young eyes, suppressing 

a lie? 
Alas, no ! your hand holds my whole destiny. 
I can never recall what my lips have avow'd; 
In your love lies whatever can render me 

proud, 
For the great crime of all my existence hath 

been 
To have known you in vain. And the duty 

best seen, 
And most hallow'd — the duty most sacred and 

sweet 
Is that which hath led me, Lucile, to your 

feet. 

speak ! and restore me the blessing I lost 
When I lost you — my pearl of all pearls beyond 

cost! 
And restore to your own life its youth, and 

restore 
The vision, the rapture, the passion of yore ! 
Ere our brows had been dimm'd in the dust of 

the world, 
When our souls their white wings yet exulting 

unfurl' d! 
For your eyes rest no more on the unquiet 

man. 
The wild star of whose course its pale orbit 

, outran. 
Whom the formless indefinite future of youth, 
With its lying allurements, distracted. In 

truth 

1 have wearily wander'd the world, and I feel 
That the least of your lovely regards, O Lu- 
cile, 



108 LUCILE. 

Is worth all the world can afford, and the 

dream 
Which, though follow 'd forever, forever doth 

seem 
As fleeting, and distant, and dim, as of yore 
When it brooded in twilight, at dawn, on the 

shore 
Of life's tmtraversed ocean! I know the sole 

path 
To repose, which my desolate destiny hath, 
Is the path by whose course to your feet I 

return. 
And who else, O Lucile, will so truly discern. 
And so deeply revere, all the passionate 

strength. 
The sublimity in you, as he whom at length 
These have saved from himself, for the truth 

they reveal 
, To his worship?*' 

XVII. 

She spoke not ; but Alfred could feel 
The light hand and arm, that upon him re- 
posed. 
Thrill and tremble. Those dark eyes of hers 

were half closed. 
But, under their languid mysterious fringe, 
A passionate softness was beaming. One 

tinge 
Of faint inward fire flush 'd transparently 

through 
The delicate, pallid, and pure olive hue 
Of the cheek, half averted and droop'd. The 
rich bosom 



LUCILE. 109 

Heaved, as when in the heart of a ruffled rose- 
blossom 
A bee is imprison'd and struggles. 

XVIII. 

Meanwhile 
The sun, in his setting, sent up the last smile 
Of his power, to baffle the storm. And behold ! 
O'er the mountains embattled, his armies, all 

gold, 
Rose and rested; while far up the dim airy 

crags, 
Its artillery silenced, its banners in rags. 
The rear of the tempest its sullen retreat 
Drew off slowly, receding in silence, to meet 
The powers of the night, which, now gathering 

afar. 
Had already sent forward one bright, signal 

star. 
The curls of her soft and luxuriant hair, 
From the dark riding-hat, which Lucile used 

to wear, 
Had escaped; and Lord Alfred now cover'd 

with kisses 
The redolent warmth of those long falling tres- 

. ses. 
Neither he, nor Lucile, felt the rain, which 

not yet 
Had ceased falling around them; when, 

splash 'd, drench 'd, and wet, 
The Due de Luvois down the rough mountain 

course 
Approached them as fast as the road, and his 

horse 



no LUCILE. 

Which was limping, would suffer. The beast 

had just now 
Lost his footing, and over the perilous brow 
Of the storm-haunted mountain his master had ] 

thrown ; 
But the Duke, who was agile, had leap'd to a 

stone, 
And the horse, being bred to the instinct which 

fills 
The breast of the wild mountaineer in these 

hills, 
Had scrambled again to his feet; and now 

master 
And horse bore about them the signs of disas- 
ter, 
As they heavily footed their way through the 

mist. 
The horse with his shoulder, the Duke with his 

wrist, 
Bruised and bleeding. 

XIX. 

If ever your feet, like my own, 
O, reader, have traversed these mountains 

alone. 
Have you felt your identity shrink and contract 
At the sound of the distant and dim cataract, 
In the presence of nature's immensities? Say, 
Have you hung o'er the torrent, bedew 'd with 

its spray. 
And, leaving the rock-way, contorted and 

roll'd. 
Like a huge couchant Typhon, fold heap'd over 

fold, 



I LUCILE. Ill 

Track'd the summits from which every step 

that you tread 
Rolls the loose stones, with thunder below, to 

the bed 
Of invisible waters, whose mystical sound 
Fills with awful suggestions the dizzy pro- 
found? 
And, laboring onwards, at last through a break 
In the walls of the world, burst at once on the 

lake? 
If you have, this description I might have 

withheld. 
You remember how strangely your bosom has 

swell' d 
At the vision reveal' d. On the overworked soil 
Of this planet, enjoyment is sharpen'd by toil; 
And one seems, by the pain of ascending the 

height, 
To have conquered a claim of that wonderful 

sight. 

XX. 

Hail, virginal daughter of cold Espingo! 

Hail, Naiad, whose realm is the cloud and the 
snow; 

For o'er thee the angels have whiten'd their 
wings. 

And the thirst of the seraphs is quench'd at thy 
springs. 

What hand hath, in heaven, upheld thine ex- 
panse? 

When the breath of creation first fashion 'd fair 
France, 

Did the Spirit of 111 in his downthrow appalling, 



112 LUCILE. 

Bruise the world, and thus hollow thy basin 

while falling? 
Ere the mammoth was born hath some monster 

unnamed 
The base of thy mountainous pedestal framed? 
And later, when Power to Beauty was wed. 
Did some delicate fairy embroider thy bed 
With the fragile valerian and wild columbine? 

XXI. 

But the secret thou keepest, and I will keep 

mine; 
Por once gazing on thee, it flash 'd on my soul, 
All that secret! I saw in a vision the whole 
Vast design of the ages ; what was and shall be ! 
Hands unseen raised the veil of a great mystery 
For one moment. I saw, and I heard ; and my 

heart 
Bore witness within me to infinite art, 
In infinite power proving infinite love ; . 
Caught the great choral chant, mark'd the 

dread pageant move — 
The divine Whence and Whither of life ! But, 

O daughter 
Of Oo, not more safe in the deep silent water 
Is thy secret, than mine in my heart. Even so. 
What I then saw and heard, the world never 

shall know. 

XXII. 

The dimness of eve o*er the valleys had closed, 
The rain had ceased falling, the mountains re- 
posed. 
The stars had enkindled in luminous courses 



LUCILE. 113 

Their slow- sliding lamps, when, remounting 

their horses, 
The riders retraversed that mighty serration 
Of rock- work. Thus left to its own desolation, 
The lake, from whose glimmering limits the 

last 
Transient pomp of the pageants of sunset had 

pass'd, 
Drew into its bosom the darkness, and only 
Admitted within it one image — a lonely 
And tremulous phantom of flickering light 
That follow'd the mystical moon through the 

night. 

XXIII. 

It was late when o'er Serchon at last they des- 
cended, 
To her chalet, in silence. Lord Alfred attended 
Lucile. As they parted, she whispered him 

low, 
** You have made tome, Alfred, an offer I know 
All the worth of, believe me. I cannot reply 
Without time for reflection. Good-night! — not 

good-by. " 
'*Alas! 'tis the very same answer you made 
To the Due de Luvois but a day since," he 

said. 
*'No, Alfred! the very same, no," she replied; 
Her voice shook. **If you love me, obey me. 

Abide 
My answer, to-morrow." 



114 LUCILE. 

XXIV. 

Alas, Cousin Jack! 
You Cassandra in breeches and boots ! turn your 

back 
To the ruins of Troy. Prophet, seek not for 

glory 
Amongst thine own people. 

I follow my story. 



CANTO V. 
I. 

Up! — forth again, Pegasus! — **Many's the 
slip,'' 

Hath the proverb well said, ''twixt the cup and 
the lip!" 

How blest should we be, have I often con- 
ceived, 

Had we really achieved what we nearly 
achieved ! 

We but catch at the skirts of the thing we 
v/ould be. 

And fall back on the lap of a false destin3\ 

So it will be, so has been, since this world be- 
gan! 

And the happiest, noblest, and best part of 
man 

Is the part which he never hath fully play'd 
out: 

For the first and last word in life's volume is 
—Doubt 

The face the most fair to our vision allowed 



LUCILE. 115 

Is the face we encounter and lose in the crowd 
The thought that most thrills our existence is 

one 
Which, before we can frame it in language, is 

gone. 

Horace! the rustic still rests by the river, 
But the river flows on, and flows past him for- 
ever ! 

Who can sit down, and say . . . *'What I will 

be, I will?^' 
Who stand up, and affirm . . . *'What I was, 

I am still?'* 
Who is it that must not, if question 'd, say . . . 

*'What 

1 would have remain'd or become, I am not?" 
We are ever behind, or beyond, or beside 
Our intrinsic existence. Forever at hide 
And seek with our souls. Not in Hades alone 
Doth SisjT'phus roll, ever frustrate, the stone, 
Do the Danaids ply, ever vainly, the sieve. 
Tasks as futile does earth to its denizens give. 
Yet there *s none so unhappy, but what he hath 

been 

Just about to be happy, at some time, I ween; 

And none so beguiled and defrauded by 
chance. 

But what once in his life, some minute circum- 
stance 

Would have fully sufficed to secure him the 
bliss 

Which, missing it then, he forever must misSw 

And to most of us, ere we go down to the grave. 

Life, relenting, accords the good gift we would 
have ; 



116 LUCILE. 

But, as though by some strange imperfection 
in fate, 

The good gift, when it comes, comes a moment 
too late. 

The Future's great veil our breath fitfully flaps, 

And behind it broods ever the mighty Perhaps. 

Yet! there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the 
lip; 

But while o*er the brim of life's beaker I dip, 

Though the cup may next moment be shat- 
ter'd, the wine 

Spilt, one deep health I'll pledge, and that 
health shall be thine, 

O being of beaut}^ and bliss ! seen and knov/n 

In the depths of my soul, and possessed there 
alone ! 

My days know thee not ; and my lips name thee 
never, 

Thy place in my poor life is vacant forever. 

We have met ; we have parted. No more is 
recorded 

In my annals on earth. This alone was ac- 
corded 

To the man whom men know me, or deem me, 
to be. 

But, far down, in the depth of my life's mys- 
tery, 

(Like the siren that under the deep ocean 
dwells. 

Whom the wind as it wails, and the wave as it 
swells. 

Cannot stir in the calm of her coraline halls, 

'Mid the world's adamantine and dim pedes- 
tals ; 



LUCILE. 117 

At whose feet sit the sylphs and sea fairies ; 

for whom 
The almondine glimmers, the soft samphires 

bloom) — 
Thou abidest and reignest forever, O Queen 
Of that better world which thou sway est un- 
seen! 
My one perfect mistress! my all things in all! 
Thee by no vulgar name known to men do I 

call: 
For the Seraphs have named thee to me in my 

sleep, 
And that name is a secret I sacredly keep. 
But, wherever this nature of mine is most fair, 
And its thoughts are the purest — belov'd, 

thou are there ! 
And whatever is noblest in aught that I do, 
Is done to exalt and to worship thee too. 
The world gave thee not to me, no I and the 

world 
Cannot take thee away from me now. I have 

furl'd 
The wings of my spirit about thy bright head; 
At thy feet are my soul's immortalities spread. 
Thou mightest have been to me much. Thou 

art more. 
And in silence I worship, in darkness adore. 
If life be not that which, without us, we find 
Chance, accident, merely — but rather the mind. 
And the soul which, within us, surviveth these 

things. 
If our real existence have truly its springs 
Less in that which we do than in that which 

we feel. 



118 LUCILE. 

Not in vain do I worship, not hopeless I kneel! 
For then, though I name thee not mistress or 

wife, 
Thou art mine — and mine only, O life of my 

life! 
And though many's the slip 'twixt the cup and 

the lip, 
Yet while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip, 
While there's life on the lip, while there's 

warmth in the wine, 
One deep health Fll pledge, and that health 

shall be thine! 

II. 

This world, on whose peaceable breast we re- 
pose 
Unconvulsed by alarm, once confused in the 

throes 
Of a tumult divine, sea and land, moist and 

dry, 
And in fiery fusion commix'd earth and sky. 
Time cool'd it, and calm'd it, and taught it to 

go 
The round of its orbit in peace, long ago. 
The wind changeth and whirleth continually: 
All the rivers run down and run into the sea: 
The wind whirleth about, and is presently 

still' d: 
All the rivers run down, yet the sea is not fill'd : 
The sun goeth forth from his chambers: the 

sun 
Ariseth, and lo ! he descendeth anon. 
All returns to its place. Use and Habit are 

powers 



LUCILE. 119 

Far stronger than Passion, in this world of 

ours. 
The great laws of life readjust their infraction, 
And to every emotion appoint a reaction. 

III. 

Alfred Vargrave had time, after leaving 

Lucile, 
To review the rash step he had taken, and feel 
What the world would have called '*his erro- 
neous position. " 
Thought obtruded its claim, and enforced 

recognition: 
Like a creditor who, when the gloss is worn 

out 
On the coat which we once wore with pleasure, 

no doubt, 
Sends us in his account for the garment we 

bought. 
Ev'ry spendthrift to passion is debtor to 

thought. 

IV. 

He felt ill at ease with himself. He could feel 
Little doubt what the answer would be from 

Lucile. 
Her eyes when they parted — her voice, when 

they met, 
Still enraptured his heart, which they haunted, 

and yet 
Though, exulting, he deem'd himself loved, 

where he loved, 
Through his mind a vague self- accusation there 

moved. 



120 LUCILE. 

O'er his fancy, when fancy was fairest, would 
rise 

The infantine face of Matilda, with eyes 

So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind, 

That his heart fail'd within him. In vain did 
he find 

A thousand just reasons for what he had done: 

The vision that troubled him would not be gone. 

In vain did he say to him.self, and with truth, 

''Matilda has beauty, and fortune, and youth; 

And her heart is too young to have deeply in- 
volved 

All its hopes in the tie which must now be dis- 
solved, 

'Twere a false sense of honor in me to sup- 
press 

The sad truth which I owe it to her to confess. 

And what reason have I to presume this poor 
life 

Of my own, with its languid and frivolous strife, 

And without what alone might endear it to her, 

Were a boon all so precious, indeed, to confer, 

Its withdrawal can wrong her? 

It is not as though 

I were bound to some poor village maiden, I 
know. 

Unto whose simple heart mine were all upon 
earth. 

Or to whose simple fortunes my own could give 
worth. 

Matilda, in all the world's gifts, will not miss 

Aught that I could procure her. 'Tis best as 
it is!" 



I 



LUCILE. 121 



V. 

In vain did he say to himself, **When I came 

To this fatal spot, I had nothing to blame 

Or reproach myself for, in the thoughts of my 

heart. 
I could not foresee that its pulses would start 
Into such strange emotion on seeing once more 
A woman I left with indifference before. 
I believed, and with honest conviction believed. 
In my love for Matilda. I never conceived 
That another could shake it. I deem'd I had 

done 
With the wild heart of youth, and looked hope- 
fully on 
To the soberer manhood, the worthier life, 
Which I sought in the love that I vow*d to my 

wife. 
Poor child! she shall learn the whole truth. 

She shall know 
What I knew not myself but a few days ago. 
The world will console her — her pride will 

support — 
Her youth will renew its emotions. In short, 
There is nothing in me that Matilda will miss 
When once we have parted. 'Tis best as it 

is!'* 

VI. 

But in vain did he reason and argue. Alas! 
He yet felt unconvinced that 'twas best as it 

was. 
Out of reach of all reason, forever would rise 
That infantine face of Matilda, with eyes 



122 LUCILE. 

So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind, 
That they harrow 'd his heart and distracted 
his mind. 

VII. 

And then, when he turned from these thoughts 

to Lucile, 
Though his heart rose enraptured he could not 

but feel 
A vague sense of awe of her nature. Behind 
All the beauty of heart, and the graces of mind. 
Which he saw and revered in her, something 

unknown 
And unseen in that nature still troubled his 

own. 
He felt that Lucile penetrated and prized 
Whatever was noblest and best, though dis- 
guised. 
In himself; but he did not feel sure that he 

knew, 
Or completely possessed, what, half hidden 

from view. 
Remained lofty and lonely in her. 

Then, her life. 
So untamed, and so free ! would she yield as a 

wife. 
Independence, long claimed as a woman? Her 

name. 
So link'd by the world with that spurious fame 
Which the beauty and wit of a woman assert, 
In some measure, alas! to her own loss and 

hurt 
In the serious thoughts of a man ! . . . This 

reflection 



LUCILE. 123 

O'er the love which he felt cast a shade of 

dejection, 
From which he forever escaped to the thought 
Doubt could reach not . . . *' I love her, and 

all else is naught! 

VIII. 

His hand trembled strangely in breaking the 

seal 
Of the letter which reach'd him at last from 

Lucile. 
At the sight of the very first words that he 

read, 
That letter dropped down from his hand like 

the dead 
Leaf in autumn, that, falling, leaves naked 

and bare 
A desolate tree in a wide wintry air. 
He pass'd his hand hurriedly over his eyes, 
Bewilder'd, incredulous. Angry surprise 
And dismay in one sharp moan, broke from 

him. Anon 
He picked up the page and read rapidly on 

IX. 

The Comtesse De Nevers to Lord Alfred 
Vargrave: 
**No, Alfred! 

If over the present, when last 
We two met, rose the glamour and mist of the 

past. 
It hath now rolled away, and our two paths are 
plain. 



124 LUCILE. 

And those two paths divide us. 

''That hand which again 
Mine one moment has clasp'd as the hand of a 

brother, 
That hand and your honor are pledged to 

another ! 
Forgive, Alfred Vargrave, forgive me, if yet 
For that moment (now past!) I have made you 
/- forget 
What was due to yourself and that other one. 

Yes, 
Mine the fault, and be mine the repentance. 

Not less, 
In now owning this fault, Alfred, let me own, 

too, 
I foresaw not the sorrow involved in it. 

''True, 
That meeting, which hath been so fatal, I 

sought, 
I alone! But, oh, deem not it was with the 

thought 
Of your heart to regain, or the past to rewaken. 
No! believe me, it was with the firm and 

unshaken 
Conviction, at least, that our meeting would 

be 
Without peril to you, although haply to me 
The salvation of all my existence. 

"I own. 
When the rumor first reach'd me, which lightly 

made known 
To the world your engagement, my heart and 

my mind 
Suffer'd torture intense. It was cruel to find > 



I 



LUCILE. 125 

That so much of the life of my life, half 

unknown 
To myself, had been silently settled on one 
Upon whom but to think it v/ould soon be a 

crime. 
Then I said to myself, *From the thraldom 

which time 
Hath not weaken'd there rests but one hope of 

escape. 
That image which Fancy seems ever to shape 
From the solitude left round the ruins of yore, 
Is a phantom. The Being I loved is no more. 
What I hear in the silence, and see in the lone 
Void of life, is the young hero born of my own 
Perish 'd youth: and his image, serene and 

sublime, 
In my heart rests unconscious of change and 

of time 
Could I see it but once more, as time and as 

change 
Have made it, a thing unfamiliar and strange, 
See, indeed, that the Being I loved in my youth 
Is no more, and what rests now is only, in 

truth, 
The hard pupil of life and the world : then, 

oh, then, 
I should wake from a dream, and my life be 

again 
Reconciled to the world; and, released from 

regret, 
Take the lot fate accords to my choice. ' 

''So we met 
But the danger I did not foresee has occurr'd; 
The danger, alas, to yourself! I have err'd. 



126 LUCILE. 

But happy for both that this error hath been 
Discover'd as soon as the danger was seen! 
We meet, Alfred Vargrave, no more. I, 

indeed, 
Shall be far from Serchon when this letter you 

read. 
My course is decided ; my path I discern : 
Doubt is over; my future is fix' d now. 

^* Return, 

return to the young living love ! Whence, 

alas! 
If, one moment, you wandered, think only it 

was 
More deeply to bury the past love. 

**And, oh! 
Believe, Alfred Vargrave, that I, where I go 
On my far distant pathway through life, shall 

rejoice 
To treasure in memory all that your voice 
Has avow'd to me, all in which others have 

clothed 
To my fancy with beauty and worth your 

betrothed! 
In the fair morning light, in the orient dew 
Of that young life, now yours, can you fail to 

renew 
All the noble and pure aspirations, the truth, 
The freshness, the faith, of your own earnest 

youth? 
Yes ! you will be happy. I, too, in the bliss 

1 foresee for you, I shall be happy. And this 
Proves me worthy your friendship. And so — 

let it prove 
That I cannot — I do not — respond to your love. 



LUCILE. 127 

Yes, indeed! be convinced that I could not 

(no, no. 
Never, never!) have rendered you happy. 

And so, 
Rest assured that, if false to the vows you 

have plighted, 
You would have endured, when the first brief, 

excited 
Emotion was o*er, not* alone the remorse 
Of honor, but also (to render it worse) 
Disappointed affection. 

'*Yes, Alfred; you start? 
But think ! if the world was too much in your 

heart, 
And too little in mine, when we parted ten 

years 
Ere this last fatal meeting, that time (ay, and 

tears!) 
Have but deepen'd the old demarcations 

which then 
Placed our natures asunder ; and we two again, 
As we then were, would still have been 

strangely at strife. 
In that self-independence which is to my life 
Its necessity now, as it once was its pride, 
Had our course through the world been hence- 
forth side by side, 
I should have revolted forever, and shock 'd 
Your respect for the world's plausibilities, 

mock'd, 
Without meaning to do so, and outraged, all 

those 
Social creeds which you live by. 

**Oh! do not suppose 



128 LUCILE. 

That I blame you. Perhaps it is you that are 

right. 
Best, then, all as it is ! 

**Deem these words life's Good-night 
To the hope of a moment: no more! If there 

fell 
Any tear on this page, 'twas a friend's. 

**So farewell 
To the past — and to you, Alfred Vargrave. 

'*LUCILE.'^ 
X. 

So ended that letter. 

The room seem'd to reel 
Round and round in the mist that was scorch- 
ing his eyes 
With a fiery dew. Grief, resentment, surprise, 
Half chocked him ; each word he had read, as 

it smote 
Down some hope, rose and grasped like a 

hand at his throat 
To stifle and strangle him. 

Gasping already 
For relief from himself, with a footstep 

unsteady. 
He pass'd from his chamber. He felt both 

oppress 'd 
And excited. The letter he thrust in his breast, 
And, in search of fresh air and of solitude, 

pass'd 
The long lime-trees of Serchon. His footsteps 

at last 
Reach 'd a bare narrow heath by the skirts of a 

wood: 



LUCILE. 129 

It was somber and silent, and suited his mood. 

By a mineral spring, long unused, now un- 
known, 

Stood a small ruin'd abbey. He reach'd it, 
sat down 

On a fragment of stone, 'mid the wild weed 
and thistle 

And read over again that perplexing epistle. 

XI. 

In re-reading that letter, there roU'd from his 
mind 

The raw mist of resentment which first made 
him blind 

To the pathos breathed through it. Tears rose 
in his eyes, 

And a hope sweet and strange in his heart 
seem'd to rise. 

The truth which he saw not the first time he 
read 

That letter, he now saw — that each word 
betrayed 

The love which the writer had sought to con- 
ceal. 

His love was received not, he could not but feel, 

For one reason alone, — that his love was not 
free. 

True ! free yet he was not : but could he not 
be 

Free erelong, free as air to revoke that fare- 
well. 

And to sanction his own hopes? he had but to 
tell 

The truth to Matilda, and she were the first 

9 Lucile 



130 LUCILE. 

To release him: he had but to wait at the 

worst. 
Matilda's relations would probably snatch 
Any pretext, with pleasure, to break off a 

match 
In which they had yielded, alone at the whim 
Of their spoil' d child, a languid approval to 

him. 
She herself, careless child! was her love for 

him aught 
Save the first joyous fancy succeeding the 

thought 
She last gave to her doll? was she able to feel 
Such a love as the love he divined in Lucile? 
He would seek her, obtain his release, and, oh! 

then, 
He had but to fly to Lucile, and again 
Claim the love which his heart would be free 

to command. 
But to press on Lucile any claim to her hand, 
Or even to seek, or to see her, before 
He could say, *'I am free; free, Lucile, to im- 
plore 
That great blessing on life you alone can con- 
fer," 
'Twere dishonor in him, 'twould be insult to 

her. 
Thus still with the letter outspread on his 

knee 
He follow'd so fondly his own revery. 
That he felt not the angry regard of a man 
Fix'd upon him; he saw not a face stern and 
wan 



f 

LUCILE. 131 

Turn'd toward him; he heard not a footstep 

that pass'd 
And repassed the lone spot where he stood, till 

at last 
A hoarse voice aroused him. 

He looked up and saw, 
On the bare heath before him, the Due de 

Luvois. 

XII. 

With aggressive ironical tones, and a look 
Of concentrated insolent challenge, the Duke 
Addressed to Lord Alfred some sneering allu- 
sion 
To *'the doubtless sublime reveries his intru- 
sion 
Had, he fear'd, interrupted. Milord would do 

better, 
He fancied, however, to fold up a letter 
The writing of which was too well known, in 

fact. 
His remark as he pass*d to have failed to 
attract." 

XIII. 

It was obvious to Alfred the Frenchman was 

bent 
Upon picking a quarrel! and doubtless 'twas 

meant 
From him to provoke it by sneers such as these. 
A moment sufficed his quick instinct to seize 
The position. He felt that he could not expose 
His own name, or Lucile's, or Matilda's, to 

those 



132 LUCILE. 

Idle tongues that would bring down upon him 
the ban 

Of the world, if he now were to fight with this 
man. 

And indeed when he look'd in the Duke's hag- 
gard face 

He was pain'd by the change there he could 
not but trace. 

And he almost felt pity. 

He therefore put by 

Each remark of the Duke with some careless 
reply, 

And coldly, but courteously, waving away 

The ill-humor the Duke seem*d resolved to 
display. 

Rose, and turned, with astern salutation, aside. 

XIV. 

Then the Duke put himself in the path, made 

one stride 
In advance, raised a hand, fixed upon him his 

eyes, 
And said ... 

"Hold, Lord Alfred! Away with disguise! 
I will own that I sought you a moment ago, 
To fix on you a quarrel. I still can do so 
Upon my excuse. I prefer to be frank. 
I admit not a rival in fortune or rank 
To the hand of a woman, whatever be hers 
Or her suitor's. I love the Comtesse de Nevers. 
I believed, ere you cross'd me, and still have 

the right 
To believe, that she would have been mine. 

To her sight 



I 



1 

LUCILE. 133 

You return, and the woman is suddenly- 
changed. 

You step in between us : her heart is estranged. 

You! who now are betrothed to another, I 
know; 

You! whose name with Lucile's nearly ten 
years ago 

Was coupled by ties which you broke: you! 
the man 

I reproached on the day our acquaintance 
began. 

You! that left her so lightly, — I cannot believe 

That you love, as I love, her; nor can I con- 
ceive 

You, indeed, have the right so to love her. 

Milord, 

I will not thus tamely concede, at your word, 

What, a few days ago, I believed to be mine ! 

I shall yet persevere : I shall yet be, in fine, 

A rival you dare not despise. It is plain 

That to settle this contest there can but remain 

One way — need I say what it is?** 



XV. 

Not unmoved 
With regretful respect for the earnestness 

proved 
By the speech he had heard, Alfred Vargrave 

replied 
In words which he trusted might yet turn aside 
The quarrel from which he felt bound to 

abstain, 
And, with stately urbanity, strove to explain 



134 LUCILE. 

To the Duke that he too (a fair rival at worst !) 
Had not been accepted. 

XVI. 

** Accepted! say first 
Are you free to have offered?" 

Lord Alfred was mute. 

XVII. 

*'Ah, you dare not reply!** cried the Duke, 

**Why dispute, 
Why palter with me? You are silent! and 

why? 
Because, in your conscience, you cannot deny 
*Twas from the vanity, wanton and cruel 

withal, 
And the wish and ascendancy lost to recall, 
That you stepp'd in between me and her. If, 

milord, 
You be really sincere, I ask only one word. 
Say at once you renounce her. At once on 

my part, 
I will ask your forgiveness with all truth of 

heart. 
And there can be no quarrel between us. Say 

on!" 
Lord Alfred grew gaird and impatient. This 

tone 
Roused a strong irritation he could not repress. 
*' You have not the right, sir," he said, ''and 

still less 
The power, to make terms and conditions with 

me. 
I refuse to reply. ' ' 



LUCILE. 135 

XVIII. 

As diviners may see 
Fates they cannot avert in some figure occult, 
He foresaw in a moment each evil result 
Of the quarrel now imminent. 

There, face to face, 
Mid the ruins and tombs of a long-perish 'd 

race, 
With, for witness, the stern Autumn Sky over- 
head, 
And beneath them, unnoticed, the graves, and 

the dead. 
Those two men had met, as it were on the 

ridge 
Of that perilous, narrow, invisible bridge 
Dividing the Past from the Future, so small 
That if one should pass over, the other must 
fall. 

XIX. 

On the ear, at that moment, the sound of a 

hoof, 
Urged with speed, sharply smote; and from 

under the roof 
Of the forest in view, where the skirts of it 

verged 
On the heath where they stood, at full gallop 

emerged 
A horseman. 

A guide appeared, by the sash 
Of red silk round the waist, and the long 

leathern lash 



136 LUCILE. 

With the short wooden handle, slung crosswise 

behind 
The short jacket; the loose canvas trouser, 

confined 
By the long- boots; the woolen capote; and 

the rein, 
A mere hempen cord on a curb. 

Up the plain 
He wheel' d his horse, white with the foam on 

his flank. 
Leap'd the rivulet lightly, turn'd sharp from 

the bank. 
And, approaching the Duke, raised his woolen 

capote, 
Bow'd low in the selle, and deliver'd a note. . 

XX. 

The two stood astonish 'd. The Duke, with a 

gest 
Of apology, turn'd, stretched his hand and pos- 

sess'd 
Himself of the letter, changed color, and tore 
The page open and read. 

Ere a moment was o'er 
His whole aspect changed. A light rose to his 

eyes. 
And a smile to his lips. While with startled 

surprise 
Lord Alfred yet watch'd him, he turn'd on his 

heel, 
And said gayly, **A pressing request from 

Lucile ! 
You are quite right. Lord Alfred! fair rivals 

at worst. 



4, LUCILE. 137 

Our relative place may perchance be reversed. 

You are not accepted, — nor free to propose! 

I, perchance, am accepted already : who knows? 

I had warn'd you, milord, I should still perse- 
vere. 

This letter — but stay! you can read it — look 
here!" 

XXI. 

It was now Alfred's turn to feel roused and 
enraged. 

But Lucile to himself was not pledged or en- 
gaged 

By aught that could sanction resentment. He 
said 

Not a word, but turned round, took the letter, 
and read . . . 

the comtesse de nevers to the dug de luvois. 

*'Saint Saviour. 

*'Your letter, which followed me here, makes 

me stay 
Till I see you again. With no moment's delay 
I entreat, I conjure you, by all that you feel 
Or profess, to come to me directly. 

Lucile." 

XXII. 

*'Your letter!" He then had been writing to 

her! 
Coldly shrugging his shoulders. Lord Alfred 

said, ^^Sir, 

10 Lucile 



138 LUCILE. 

Do not let me detain yon'/' 

The Duke smiled and bow'd; 
Placed the note in his bosom; addressed, half 

aloud, 
A few words to the messenger. , . . "Say your 

dispatch 
Will be answered ere nightfall;*' then glanced 

at his watch, 
And turned back to the Baths. 

XXIII. 

Alfred Vargrave stood still. 
Torn, distracted in heart, and divided in will. 
He turned to Lucile*s farewell letter to him, 
And read over her words; rising tears made 

them dim; 
"Doubt is over: my future is fix'd now,'' they 

said, 
"My course is decided." Her course? what! 

to wed 
With this insolent rival! With that thought 

there shot 
Through his heart an acute jealous anguish. 

But not 
Even thus could his clear worldly sense quite 

excuse 
Those strange words to the Duke. She was 

free to refuse 
Himself, free the Duke to accept, it was true ; 
Even then, though, this eager and strange 

rendezvous. 
How imprudent ! To some unfrequented lone 

inn. 



LUCILE. 139 

And so late (for the night was about to begin) — 
She, companionless there! — had she bidden 

that man? 
A fear, vague, and formless, and horrible, ran 
Through his heart. 

XXIV. 

At that moment he looked up, and saw, 
Riding fast through the forest, the Due de 

Luvois, 
Who waved his hand to him, and sped out of 

sight. 
The day was descending. He felt 'twould be 

night 
Ere that man reached Saint Saviour. 

XXV. 

He walk'd on, but not 
Back toward Serchon; he walked on, but knew 

not in what 
Direction, nor yet with what object, indeed, 
He was walking but still he walk'd on without 

heed. 

XXVI. 

The day had been sullen ; but, towards his de- 
cline, 

The sun sent a stream of wild light up the 
pine. 

Darkly denting the red light reveal'd at its 
back, 

The old ruin'd abbey rose roofless and black. 

The spring that y-et oozed through the moss- 
paven floor, 

Had suggested, no doubt, to the monks there, 
of yore, 



140 LUCILE. 

The sight of that refuge where, back to its 

God, 
How many a heart, now at rest 'neath the sod, 
Had borne from the world all the same wild 

unrest 
That now prey'd on his own! 

XXVII. 

By the thoughts in his breast 
With varying impulse divided and torn, 
He traversed the scant heath, and reach 'd the 

forlorn 
Autumn woodland, in which but a short while 

ago 
He had seen the Duke rapidly enter; and so 
He too enter'd. The light waned around him, 

and pass'd 
Into darkness. The wrathful, red Occident 

cast 
One glare of vindictive inquiry behind. 
As the last light of day from the high wood 

declined, 
And the great forest sigh'd its farewell to the 

beam 
And far off on the stillness the voice of the 

stream 
Fell faintly. 

XXVIII. 

O Nature, how fair is thy face, 
And how light is thy heart, and how friendless 

thy grace ! 
Thou false mistress of man ! thou dost sport 

with him lightly 



LUCILE. 141 

In his hours of ease and enjoyment; and 

brightly 
Dost thou smile to his smile; to his joys thou 

inclinest, 
But his sorrows, thou knowest them not, nor 

divinest. 
While he woos, thou art wanton ; thou lettest 

him love thee ; 
But thou art not his friend, for his grief cannot 

move thee ; 
And at last, when he sickens and dies, what 

lost thou? 
All as gay are thy garments, as careless thy 

brow. 
And thou laughest and toyest with any new- 
comer. 
Not a tear more for winter, a smile less for 

summer! 
Hast thou never an anguish to heave the heart 

under 
That fair breast of thine, O thou feminine 

wonder 
For all those — the young, and the fair, and the 

strong. 
Who have loved thee, and lived with thee 

gayly and long. 
And who now on thy bosom lie dead? and their 

deeds 
And their days are forgotten ! O hast thou no 

weeds 
And not one year of mourning, — one out of the 

many 
That deck thy new bridals forever, — nor any 



142 LUCILE. 

Regrets for thy lost loves, conceard from the 

new 
O thou widow of earth's generations? Go to! 
If the sea and the night wind know aught of 

these things, 
They do not reveal it. We are not thy kings. 



CANTO VI. 



**The huntsman has ridden too far on the 

chase, 
And eldritch, and eerie, and strange is the 

place ! 
The castle betokens a date long gone by. 
He crosses the courtyard with curious eye : 
He wanders from chamber to chamber, and yet 
From strangeness to strangeness his footsteps 

are set; 
And the whole place grows wilder and wilder, 

and less 
Like aught seen before. Each in absolute 

dress. 
Strange portraits regard him with looks of sur- 
prise, 
Strange forms from the arras start forth to his 

eyes. 
Strange epigraphs, blazoned, burn out of the 

wall: 
The spell of a wizard is over it all. 
In her chamber, enchanted, the Princess is 

sleeping 



f 

LUCILE. 143 

The sleep which for centuries she has been 

keeping 
If she smile in her sleep, it must be to some 

lover 
Whose lost golden locks the long grasses now 

cover: 
If she moan in her dream, it must be to de- 
plore 
Some grief which the world cares to hear of no 

more. 
But how fair is her forehead, how calm seems 

her cheek ! 
And how sweet must that voice be, if once she 

would speak ! 
He looks and he loves her ; but knows he (not 

he!) 
The clew to unravel this old mystery? 
And he stoops to those shut lips. The shapes 

on the wall. 
The mute men in armor around him, and all 
The weird figures frown, as though striving to 

say, 
*Halt! invade not the Past, reckless child of 

To-day! 
And give not, O madman ! the heart in thy 

breast 
To a phantom, the soul of whose sense is pos- 

sess'd 
By an Age not thine own!' 

**But unconscious is he. 
And he heeds not the warning, he cares not to 

see 
Aught but one form before him ! 

'*Rash, wild words are o'er. 



144 LUCILE. 

And the vision is vanished from sight evermore ! 
And the gray morning sees, as it drearily 

moves 
O'er a land long deserted, a madman that 

roves 
Through a ruin, and seeks to recapture a 

dream, 
Lost to life and its uses, withdrawn from the 

scheme 
Of man's walking existence, he wanders 

apart. ' ' 
And this is an old fairy-tale of the heart. 
It is told in all lands, in a different tongue ; 
Told with tears by the old, heard with smiles 

by the young. 
And the tale to each heart unto which it is 

known 
Has a different sense. It has puzzled my own. 

II. 

Eugene de Luvois was a man who, in part 
From strong physical health, and that vigor of 

heart 
Which physical health gives, and partly, per- 
chance. 
From a generous vanity native to France, 
With the heart of a hunter, whatever the quarry; 
Pursued it, too hotly impatient to tarry 
Or turn, till he took it. His trophies were 

trifles : 
But trifler he was not. When rose-leaves it 

rifles. 
No less than when oak-trees it ruins, the wind 
Its pleasures pursues with impetuous mind. 



LUCILE. 145 

Both Eugene de Luvois and Lord Alfred had 

been 
Men of pleasure: but men's pleasant vices, 

which, seen 
Floating faint, in the sunshine of Alfred's soft 

mood, 
Seem'd amiable foibles, by Luvois pursued 
With impetuous passion, seemed semi -Satanic. 
Half-pleased you see brooks play with pebbles; 

in panic 
You watch them whirl'd down by the torrent. 

In truth, 
To the sacred political creed of his youth 
The century which he was born to denied 
All realization. Its generous pride 
To degenerate protest on all things was sunk; 
Its principles each to a prejudice shrunk. 
Down the path of a life that led nowhere he 

trod, 
Where his whims were his guides, and his will 

was his god. 
And his pastime his purpose. 

From boyhood possess 'd 
Of inherited wealth, he liad learned to invest 
Both his wealth and those passions wealth frees 

from the cage 
Which penury locks, in each vice of an age 
All the virtues of which, by the creed he re- 
vered, 
Were to him illegitimate. 

Thus, he appeared 
To the world what the world chose to have him 

appear, — 
The frivolous tyrant of Fashion, a mere 

10 



146 LUCILE. 

Reformer in coats, cards, and carriages! Still 
'Twas the vigor of nature, and tension of will, 
That found for the first time — perhaps for the 

last — 
In Lucile what they lacked yet to free from the 

Past, 
Force, and faith, in the Future. 

And so, in his mind, 
To the anguish of losing the woman was join'd 
The terror of missing his life's destination. 
Which in her had its mystical representation. 

And truly, the thought of it, scaring him, pass'd 
O'er his heart, while he now through the twi- 
light rode fast 
As a shade from the wing of some great bird 

obscene 
In a wide silent land may be suddenly seen, 
Darkening over the sands, where it startles and 

scares 
Some traveler stray'd in the waste unawares, 
So that thought more than once darken'd over 

his heart 
For a moment, and rapidly seem'd to depart. 
Fast and furious he rode through the thickets 

which rose 
Up the shaggy hillside: and the quarreling 

crows 
Clang'd above him, and clustering down the 

dim air 
Droop'd into the dark woods. By fits here and 

there 



I 



LUCILE. 147 

Shepherd fires faintly gleam'd from the val- 
leys. Oh, how 

He envied the wings of each wild bird, as now 

He -urged the steed over the dizzy ascent 

Of the mountain ! Behind him a mnrmur was 
sent 

From the torrent — before him a sound from 
the tracts 

Of the woodlands that waved o'er the wild cat- 
aracts. 

And the loose earth and loose stones roll'd mo- 
mently down 

From the hoofs of his steed to abysses un- 
known. 

The red day had fallen beneath the black 
woods, 

And the Powers of th^ night through the vast 
solitudes 

Walked abroad and conversed with each other.- 
The trees 

Were in sound and in motion, and mutter'd like 
seas 

In Elfland. The road through the forest was 
hollowed. 

On he sped through the darkness, as though 
he were followed 

Fast, fast by the Erl King! 

The wild wizard-work 

Of the forest at last opened sharp, o'er the fork 

Of a savage ravine, and behind the black stems 

Of the last trees, whose leaves in the light 
gleam'd like gems. 

Broke the broad moon above the voluminous 

Rock-chaos, — the Hecate of that Tartarus! 



148 LUCILE. 

With his horse reeking white, he at last reached 

the door 
Of a small mountain inn, on the brow of a hoar 
Craggy promontory, o'er a fissure as grim. 
Through which, ever roaring, there leaped o'er 

the limb 
Of the rent rock a torrent of water, from sight, 
Into pools that were feeding the roots of the 

night. 
A balcony hung o'er the water. Above 
In a glimmering casement a shade seem'd to 

move. 
At the door the old negress was nodding her 

head 
As he reach 'd it. ''My mistress awaits you, " 

she said. 
And up the rude stairway of creaking pine 

rafter 
He follow 'd her silent. A few moments after, 
His heart almost stunned him, his head seem'd 

to reel, 
For a door closed — Luvois was alone with 

Lucile. 

IV. 

In a gray traveling dress, her dark hair con- 
fined 

Streaming o'er it, and tossed now and then by 
the wind 

From the lattice, that waved the dull flame in 
a spire 

From a brass lamp before her — a faint hectic 
fire 



LUCILE. 149 

On her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of 
fever ; 

They seem'd to have wept themselves wider 
than ever, 

Those dark eyes — so dark and so deep ! 

''You relent? 

And your plans have been changed by the let- 
ter I sent?" 

There his voice sank, borne down by a strong 
inward strife. 

LUCILE. 

Your letter! yes, Duke. For it threatens 

man's life — 
Woman's honor. 

Luvois. 
The last, madam, not? 

LUCILE. 

Both. I glance 
At your own words ; blush, son of the knight- 
hood of France, 
As I read them ! You say in this letter . . . 

''I know 
Why now you refuse me; 'tis (is it not so?) 
For the man who has trifled before, wantonly, 
And now trifles again with the heart you deny 
To myself. But he shall not! By man's last 

wild law, 
I will seize on the right (the right, Due de 

Luvois !) 
To avenge for you, woman, the past and to 
give 



160 LUCILE. 

To the future its freedom. That man shall not 

live 
To make you as wretched as you have made 

me!" 

Luvois. 

Well, madam, in those words what word do 

you see 
That threatens the honor of woman? 

LUCILE. 

See! . . . what, 
What word, do you ask? Every word! would 

you not. 
Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that 

your name 
Was soil'd and dishonored by more than mere 

shame 
If the woman that bore it had first been the 

cause 
Of the crime which in these words is menaced? 

You pause! 
Woman's honor, you ask? Is there, sir, no 

dishonor 
In the smile of a woman, when men, gazing on 

her, 
Can shudder, and say, **In that smile is a 

grave?" 
No! you can have no cause, Duke, for no right 

you have 
In the contest you menace. That contest but 

draws 
Every right into ruin. By all human laws 
Of man's heart I forbid it, by all sanctities 
Of man's social honor! 



LUCILE. 151 

The Duke dropped his eyes. 

*'I obey you," he said, *'but let woman beware 

How she plays fast and loose thus with human 
despair, 

And the storm in man's heart. Madam, yours 
was the right 

When you saw that I hoped, to extinguish hope 
quite, 

But you should from the first have done this, 
for I feel 

That you knew from the first that I loved you. *' 

Lucile 

This sudden reproach seem'd to startle. 

She raised 

A slow, wistful regard to his features, and 
gazed 

On them silent awhile. His own looks were 
downcast. 

Through her heart, whence its first wild alarm 
was now pass'd. 

Pity crept, and perhaps o'er her conscience a 
tear. 

Falling softly, awoke it. 

However severe. 

Were they unjust, those sudden upbraidings, 
to her? 

Had she lightly misconstrued this man's char- 
acter, 

Which had seem'd, even when most impas- 
sioned it seem'd. 

Too self-conscious to lose all in love? Had she 
deem'd 

That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world, 



152 LUCILE. 

So proud of the place the world gave him, held 

furl'd 
In his bosom no passion which once shaken 

wide 
Might tug, till it snapped, that erect lofty 

pride ; 
Were those elements in him, which once roused 

to strife 
Overthrow a whole nature, and change a whole 

life? 
There are two kinds of strength. One, the 

strength of the river 
Which^ through continents pushes its pathway- 
forever 
To fling its fond heart in the sea; if it lose 
This, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use. 
It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies. 
The other, the strength of the sea; which sup- 
plies 
Its deep life from mysterious sources, and 

draws 
The river's life into its own life, by laws 
Which it heeds not. The difference in each 

case is this : 
The river is lost, if the ocean it miss; 
If the sea miss the river, what matter? The 

sea 
Is the sea still, forever. Its deep heart will 

be 
Self-sufficing, unconscious of loss as of yore ; 
Its sources are infinite ; still to the shore, 
With no diminution of pride, it will say, 
**I am here; I, the sea! stand aside, and make 

way ! ' ' 



LUCILE. 153 

Was his love, then, the love of the river? and 

she, 
Has she taken that love for the love of the sea? 
At that thought, from her aspect whatever had 

been 
Stern or haughty departed ; and, humbled in 

mien. 
She approach 'd him and brokenly murmur 'd, 

as though 
To herself more than him, **Was I wrong? Is 

it so? 
Hear me, Duke! you must feel that, whatever 

you deem 
Your right to reproach me in this, you esteem 
I may claim on one ground — I at least am sin- 
cere. 
You say that to me from the first it was clear 
That you loved me. But what if this knowl- 
edge were known 
At a moment in life when I felt most alone, 
At least able to be so! a moment, in fact, 
When I strove from one haunting regret, to 

retract 
And emancipate life and once more to fulfil 
Woman's destinies, duties, and hopes? would 

you still 
So bitterly blame me, Eugene de Luvois, 
If I hoped to see all this, or deemed that I saw 
For a moment the promise of this in the 

plighted 
Affection of one who, in nature, united 
So much that from others affection might 

claim 
If only affection were free? Do you blame 



154 LUCILE. 

The hope of that moment? I deem'd my heart 

free 
From all, saving- sorrow. I deemed that in me 
There was yet strength to mould it once more 

to my will, 
To uplift it once more to my hope. Do you 

still 
Blame me, Duke, that I did not then bid you 

refrain 
From hope? alas! I too then hoped!" 

Luvois. 

Oh, again, 
Yet again, say that thrice blessed word! say, 

Lucile, 
That you then deign *d to hope — 

Lucii^E. 

Yes ! to hope I could feel. 
And could give to you, that without which, all 

else given 
Were but to deceive, and to injure you even : 
A heart free from thoughts of another. Say, 

then. 
Do you blame that one hope? 

Luvois. 

O Lucile ! 

*'Say again,'* 
She resumed, gazing down, and with faltering 

tone, 
*'Do you blame me that, when I at last had to 

own 
To my heart that the hope it had cherish 'd was 
o'er 



LUCILE. 155 

And forever, I said to you then, *Hope no 

more?' 
I myself hoped no more ! ' ' 

With but ill-suppressed wrath 
The Duke answered... **What, then! he 

recrossed your path, 
This man, and you have but to see him, despite 
Of his troth to another, to take back that 

light 
Worthless heart to your own, which he 

wrong'd years ago!" 
Lucile faintly, brokenly murmur' d . . . 
' ' No ! no ! 'Tis not that — but alas — but I cannot 

conceal 
That I have not forgotten the past — but I feel 
That I cannot accept all these gifts on your 

part, — 
In return for what . . . ah, Duke, what is it? 

... a heart 
Which is only a ruin ! ' ' 

With words warm and wild^ 
*' Though a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild 
And restore it," Luvois cried; * 'though ruin'd 

it be. 
Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me!" 
He approach'd her. She shrank back. The 

grief in her eyes 
Answer 'd, **No!" 

An emotion more fierce seem'd to rise 
And to break into flame, as though fired by 

the light 
Of that look, in his heart. He exclaimed^ 

**Am I right? 

You reject me! Accept him?'" 



156 LUCILE. 

» ''I have not done so/' 

She said firmly. He hoarsely resumed, *'Not 

yet — no ! 
But can you with accents as firm promise me 
That you will not accept him?'* 

"Accept? Is he free? 
Free to offer?'* she said. 

'*You evade me, Lucile," 
He replied. "Ah, you will not avow what you 

feel! 
He might make himself free? Oh, you blush 

— turn away! 
Dare you openly look in my face, lady, say! 
While you deign to reply to one question from 

me? 
I may hope not, you tell me: but tell me, may 

he? 
What! silent? I alter my question. If quite 
Freed in faith from this troth might he hope 

then?" 

"He might," 
She said softly. 

VI. 

Those two whisper'd words in his breast. 
As he heard them, in one maddening moment 

releast 
All that's evil and fierce in man's nature, to 

crush 
And extinguish in man all that's good. In the 

rush 
Of wild jealousy, all the fierce passions that 

waste 
And darken and devastate intellect, chased 



I 



LUCILE. 157 

From its realm human reason. The wild ani- 
mal 
In the bosom of man set free. And of all 
Human passions the fiercest, fierce jealousy, 

fierce 
As the fire, and more wild than the whirlwind, 

to pierce 
And to rend, rush'd upon him; fierce jealousy, 

svv^ell'd 
By all passions bred from it, and ever impelled 
To involve all things else in the anguish within 

it 
And on others inflict its own pangs! 

At that minute 
What pass'd through his mind, who shall say? 

Who may tell 
The dark thoughts of man's heart, which the 

red glare of hell 
Can illumine alone? 

He stared wildly around 
That lone place, so lonely! That silence! no 

sound 
Reach 'd that room, through the dark evening 

air, save drear 
Drip and roar of the cataract ceaseless and 

near! 
It was midnight all round on the weird silent 

weather; 
Deep midnight in him ! They two, — lone and 

together. 
Himself, and that woman defenseless before 

him! 
The triumph and bliss of his rival flashed o'er 

him. 



158 LUCILE. 

The abyss of his own black despair seem'd to 

ope 
At his feet, with that awful exclusion of hope 
Which Dante read over the city of doom. 
All the Tarquin pass'd into his soul in the 

gloom, 
And uttering words he dared never recall, 
Words of insult and menace, he thundered 

down all 
The brew'd storm-cloud within him ; its flashes 

scorched blind 
His own senses. His spirit was driven on the 

wind 
Of a reckless emotion beyond his control ; 
A torrent seem'd loosen'd within him. His 

soul 
Surged up from that caldron of passion that 

hiss'd 
And seeth'd in his heart. 

VII. 

He had thrown, and had miss'd 
His last stake. 

VIII. 

For, transfigured, she rose from the place 
Where he rested o'erawed: a saint's scorn on 

her face ; 
Such a dread vade retro was written in light 
On her forehead, the fiend would himself, at 

that sight, 
Have sunk back abashed to perdition. I know 
If Lucretia at Tarquin but once had look'd^o. 
She had needed no dagger next morning. 



LUCILE. 159 

She rose 

And swept to the door, like the phantom the 
snows 

Feel at nightfall sweep o'er them, when day- 
light is gone, 

And Caucasus is with the moon all alone. 

There she paused ; and, as though from im- 
measurable, 

Insurpassable distance, she murmur 'd — 

''Farewell! 

We, alas! have mistaken each other. Once 
more 

Illusion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er. 

Due de Luvois, adieu!" 

From the heart-breaking gloom 

Of that vacant, reproachful, and desolate room 

He felt she was gone — gone forever! 

IX. 

No word, 
The sharpest that ever was edged like a sword, 
Could have pierced to his heart with such keen 

accusation 
As the silence, the sudden profound isolation. 
In which he remained. 

**0 return; I repent!" 
He exclaim'd; but no sound through the still- 
ness was sent, 
Save the roar of the water, in answer to him, 
And the beetle that, sleeping, yet humm'd her 

night-hymn : 
An indistinct anthem, that troubled the air 
With a searching, and wistful, and questioning 
prayer. 



160 LUCILE. 

** Return, " sung the wandering insect. The 
roar 

Of the waters replied, '* Nevermore ! never- 
more ! * ' 

He walk'd to the window. The spray on his 
brow 

Was flung cold from the whirlpools of water 
below, 

The frail wooden balcony shook in the sound 

Of the torrent. The mountains gloomed sul- 
lenly round. 

A candle one ray from a closed casement flung. 

O'er the dim balustrade all bewilder 'd he 
hung, 

Vaguely watching the broken and shimmering 
blink 

Of the stars on the veering and vitreous brink 

Of that snake-like prone column of water; and 
listing 

Aloof o'er the languors of air the persisting 

Sharp horn of the gray gnat. Before he relin- 
quish'd 

His unconscious employment, that light was 
extinguish 'd. 

Wheels, at last, from the inn door aroused him. 
He ran 

Down the stairs; reach'd the door — just to see 
her depart. 

Down the mountain the carriage was speeding. 

X. 

His heart 
Pealed the knell of its last hope. He rush'd 
on; but whither 



LUCILE. 161 

He knew not — on, into the dark cloudy 

weather — 
The midnight — the mountains — on, over the 

shelf 
Of the precipice — on, still — away from himself! 
Till exhausted, he sank 'mid the dead leaves 

and moss 
At the mouth of the forest. A glimmering 

cross 
Of gray stone stood for prayer by the woodside. 

He sank 
Prayerless, powerless, down at its base, 'mid 

the dank 
Weeds and grasses ; his face hid amongst them. 

He knew 
That the night had divided his whole life in 

two. 
Behind him a Past that was over forever ; 
Before him a Future devoid of endeavor 
And purpose. He felt a remorse for the one, 
Of the other a fear. What remained to be done? 
Whither now should he turn? Turn again, as 

before. 
To his old easy, careless existence of yore 
He could not. He felt that for better or worse 
A change had pass'd o'er him; an angry re- 
morse 
Of his own frantic failure and error had marr'd 
Such a refuge forever. The future seem'd 

barr'd 
By the corpse of a dead hope o'er which he 

must tread 
To attain it. Life's wilderness round him was 

spread. 

11 Lucile 



162 LUCILE. 

What clew there to cling by? 

He clung by a name 
To a dynasty fallen forever. He came 
Of an old princely house, true through change 

to the race 
And the sword of Saint Louis — a faith 'twere 

disgrace 
To relinquish, and folly to live for! Nor less 
Was his ancient religion (once potent to bless 
Or to ban ; and the crozier his ancestors kneel' d 
To adore, when they fought for the Cross, in 

hard field 
With the crescent) become, ere it reached him, 

tradition ; 
A mere faded badge of a social position ; 
A thing to retain and say nothing about, 
Lest, if used, it should draw degradation from 

doubt. 
Thus, the first time he sought them, the creeds 

of his youth 
Wholly fail'd the strong needs of his manhood, 

in truth! 
And beyond them, what region of refuge? what 

field 
For employment, this civilized age, did it yield 
In that civilized land? or to thought? or to 

action? 
Blind deliriums, bewilder'd and endless dis- 
traction ! 
Not even a desert, not even the cell 
Of a hermit to flee to, wherein he might quell 
The wild devil-instincts which now, unreprest, 
Ran riot through that ruin'd world in his 

breast. 



LUCILE. 163 

XI. 

So he lay there, like Lucifer, fresh from the 

sight 
Of a heaven scaled and lost; in the wide arms 

of night 
0*er the howling abysses of nothingness I 
• There 

As he lay, Nature's deep voice was teaching 

him prayer; 
But what had he to pray to? 

The winds in the woods^ 
The voices abroad o*er those vast solitudes, 
Were in commune all around with the invisible 

Power 
That walk'd the dim world by Himself at that 

hour. 
But their language he had not yet learned — in 

despite 
Of the much he had learned — or forgotten it 

quite. 
With its once native accents. Alas! what had 

he 
To add to that deep-toned sublime symphony 
Of thanksgiving? ... A fiery finger was still 
Scorching into his heart some dread sentence. 

His will, 
Like a wind that is put to no purpose, was wild 
At its work of destruction within him. The 

child 
Of an infidel age, he had been his own god. 
His own devil. 

He sat on the damp mountain sod, 
And stared sullenly up at the dark sky. 



164 LUCILE. 

The clouds 
Had heap*d themselves over the bare west in 

crowds 
Of misshapen, incongruous potents. A green 
Streak of dreary, cold, luminous ether, between 
The base of their black barricades, and the 

ridge 
Of the grim world, gleam'd ghastly, as under 

some bridge, 
Cyclop-sized, in a city of ruins overthrown 
By sieges forgotten, some river, unknown 
And unnamed, widens on into desolate lands. 
While he gazed, that cloud-city invisible hands 
Dismantled and rent ; and reveaVd, through a 

loop 
In the breach 'd dark, the blemish 'd and half- 
broken hoop 
Of the moon, which soon silently sank; and 

anon 
The whole supernatural pageant was gone. 
The wide night, discomforted, conscious of loss, 
Darken'd round him. One object alone — that 

gray cross — 
Glimmer'd faint on the dark. Gazing up, he 

descried 
Through the void air, its desolate arms out- 
stretched wide, 
As though to embrace him. 

He turn'd from the sight. 
Set his face to the darkness, and fled. 



p 



LUCILE. 165 

XII. 

When the light 

Of the dawn grayly flickered and glared on the 
spent 

Wearied ends of the night, like a hope that is 
sent 

To the need of some grief when its need is the 
sorest, 

He was sullenly riding across the dark forest 

Toward Serchon. 

Thus riding, with eyes of defiance 

Set against the young day, as disclaiming alli- 
ance 

With aught that the day brings to man, he per- 
ceived 

Faintly, suddenly, fleetingly, through the 
damp-leaved 

Autumn branches that put forth gaunt arms on 
his way 

The face of a man pale and wistful, and gray 

With the gray glare of morning. Eugene de 
Luvois, 

With the sense of a strange second sight, when 
he saw 

That phantom-like face, could at once recog- 
nize. 

By the sole instinct now left to guide him, the 
eyes 

Of his rival, though fleeting the vision and dim. 

With a stern sad inquiry fix'd keenly on him. 

And, to meet it, a lie leap'd at once to his 
own: 

A lie born of that lying darkness now grown 

Over all in his nature! He answered that gaze 



166 LUCILE. 

With a look which, if ever a man's look con- 
veys 

More intensely than words what a man means, 
conveyed 

Beyond doubt in its smile an announcement 
which said, 

*'I have triumphed. The question your eyes 
would imply 

Comes too late, Alfred Vargrave!** 

And so he rode by, 

And rode on, and rode gayly, and rode out of 
sight 

Leaving that look behind him to rankle and 
bite. 

XIII. 

And it bit, and it rankled. 

XIV. 

Lord Alfred, scarce knowing. 
Or choosing, or heeding the way he was going, 
By one wild hope, impell'd, by one wild fear 

pursued. 
And led by one instinct, which seem'd to ex- 
clude 
From his mind every human sensation, save 

one — 
The torture of doubt — had stray'd moodily on, 
Down the highway deserted, that evening in 

which 
With the Duke he had parted; stray 'd on, 

through rich 
Haze of sunset, or into the gradual night, 



LUCILE. 167 

Which darken 'd, unnoticed, the land from his 

sight, 
Toward Saint Saviour; nor did the changed 

aspect of all 
The wild scenery round him avail to recall 
To his senses their normal perceptions, until, 
As he stood on the black shaggy brow of the 

hill 
At the mouth of the forest, the moon, which 

had hung 
Two dark hours in a cloud, slipp'd on fire from 

among 
The rent vapors and sunk o'er the ridge of the 

world. 
Then he lifted his eyes, and saw round him un- 
furled. 
In one moment of splendor, the leagues of dark 

trees. 
And the long rocky line of the wild Pyrenees. 
And he knew by the milestone scored rough 

on the face 
Of the bare rock, he was but two hours from 

the place 
Where Lucile and Luvois must have met. This 

same track 
The Duke must have traversed, perforce, to 

get back 
To Serchon ; not yet then the Duke had re- 

turn'd! 
He listen'd, he looked up the dark, but dis- 

cern'd 
Not a trace, not a sound of a horse by the way. 
He knew that the night was approaching to 

day. 



168 LUCILE. 

He resolved to proceed to Saint Saviour. The 

morn 
Which, at last, through the forest broke chill 

and forlorn, 
Reveal'd to him, riding toward Serchon, the 

Duke. 
'Twas then that the two men exchanged look 

for look. 

XV. 

And the Duke's rankled in him. 

XVI. 

He rush'd on. He tore 
His path through the thicket. He reach'd the 

inn door, 
Roused the yet drowsing porter, reluctant to 

rise, 
And inquired for the Countess. The man 

rubb'd his eyes. 
The Cotmtess was gone. And the Duke? 

The man stared 
A sleepy inquiry. 

With accents that scared 
The man's dull sense awake, ''He, the strang- 
er," he cried, 
*'Who had been there that night!" 

The man grinn'd and replied, 
With a va-^ant intelligence, ''He, oh ay, ay! 
He went after the lady," 

No further reply 
Could he give. Alfred Vargrave demanded no 
more 



jr ^ LUCILE. 169 

% 

*" Flung a coin to the man, and so turn'd from the 

door. 
**What! the Duke then the night in that lone 

inn had pass'd? 
In that lone inn — with her!" Was that look 

he had cast 
When they met in the forest, that look which 

remained 
On his mind with its terrible smile, thus ex- 

plain'd? 

XVII. 

The day was half-turn'd to the evening, before 
He re-entered Serchon, with a heart sick and 

' sore. 
In the midst of a light crowd of babblers, his 

look, 
By their voices attracted, distinguished the 

Duke, 
Gay, insolent, noisy, with eyes sparkling bright^ 
With laughter, shrill, airy, continuous. 

Right 
Through the throng Alfred Vargrave, with 

swift sombre stride, 
Glided on. The Duke noticed him, turn'd, 

stepp'd aside. 
And, cordially grasping his hand, whispered 

low, 
**0, how right have you been! There can 

never be — no. 
Never — any more contest between us! Milord, 
Let us henceforth be friends!" 

Having utter'd that word, 
He turned lightly round on his heel, and again 

12 Lacile 



170 LUCILE. 

His gay laughter was heard, echoed loud by 
that train 

Of his young imitators. 

Lord Alfred stood still. 

Rooted, stunn'd to the spot. He felt weary 
and ill, 

Out of heart with his own heart, and sick to 
the soul 

With a dull, stifling anguish he could not con- 
trol. 

Does he hear in a dream, through the buzz of 
the crowd. 

The Duke's blithe associates, babbling aloud 

Some comment upon his gay humor that day? 

He never was gayer: what makes him so gay? 

'Tis doubt, say the flatterers, flattering in 
tune, 

Some vestal whose virtue no tongue dare im- 
pugn 

Has at last found a Mars — who, of course, shall 
be nameless. 

The vestal that yields to Mars only, is blame- 
less! 

Hark! hears he a name which, thus syllabled, 
stirs 

All his heart into tumult? . . . Lucile de 
Nevers 

With the Duke's coupled gayly, in some laugh- 
ing, light. 

Free allusion? Not so as might give him the 
right 

To turn fiercely round on his speaker, but yet 

To a trite and irreverent compliment set ! 



LUCILE. 171 



XVIII. 



V Slowly, slowly, usurping that place in his soul 

V Where the thought of Lucile was enshrined, 

did there roll 
Back again, back again, on its smooth down- 
ward course 
; O'er his nature, with gather'd momentum and 
force. 
The world. 

XIX. 

J **No!'* he mutter'd, **she cannot have sinn'd! 
. True ! women there are (self-named women of 

mind !) 
Who love rather liberty — liberty, yes ! 
To choose and to leave — than the legalized 

stress 
Of the lovingest marriage. But she — is she 

so? 
I will not believe it. Lucile? O, no, no! 
Not Lucile! 

"But the world? and, ah, what would it say? 
O, the look of that man, and his laughter, to- 
day! 
The gossip's light question ! the slanderous jest ! 
She is right! no, we could not be happy. 'Tis 

best 
As it is. I will write to her — write, O, my 

heart ! 
And accept her farewell. Our farewell! must 

we part — 
Part thus, then — forever, Lucile? Is it so? 
Yes ! I feel it. We could not be happy, I know. 
'Twas a dream! we must waken!" 



172 LUCILE. 

XX. 

With head bow'd, as though 
By the weight of the heart's resignation, and 

slow 
Moody footsteps, he turned to his inn. 

Drawn apart 
From the gate, in the court-yard and ready to 

start, 
Postboys mounted, portmanteaus packed up 

and made fast, 
A traveling-carriage, unnoticed, he pass'd. 
He order'd his horse to be ready anon; 
Sent on, and paid, for the reckoning, and 

slowly pass'd 
And ascended the staircase, and enter' d his 

room. 
It was twilight. The chamber was dark in the 

gloom 
Of the evening. He listlessly kindled a light 
On the mantel-piece ; there a large card caught 

his sight — 
A large card, a stout card, well-printed and 

plain, 
Nothing flourishing, flimsy, affected, or vain. 
It gave a respectable look to the slab 
That it lay on. The name was — 

Sir Ridley MacNab. 

Full familiar to him was the name that he saw. 
For 'twas that of his own future uncle-in-law. 
Mrs. Darcy's rich brother, the banker, well- 
known 
As wearing the longest philacteried gown 



LUCILE. 173 

Of all the rich Pharisees England can boast of ; 
^ A shrewd Puritan Scot, whose sharp wits made 
f the most of 

I This world and the next ; having largely in- 
f vested 

i Not only where treasure is never molested 
^ By thieves, moth, or rust ; but on this earthly 
I ball 

f Where interest was high, and security small, 
f Of mankind there was never a theory yet 
■^ Not by some individual instance upset: 
And so that sorrowful verse of the Psalm 
Which declares that the wicked expand like the 

palm 
In a world where the righteous are stunted and 

pent, 
A cheering exception did Ridley present. 
Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven prosper' d his 

piety. 
The leader of every religious society, 
Christian knowledge he labored through life to 

promote 
With personal profit, and knew how to quote 
Both the Stocks and the Scripture, with equal 

advantage 
To himself and admiring friends, in this Cant- 
Age. 

XXI. 

Whilst over this card Alfred vacantly brooded, 
A waiter his head through the doorway pro- 
truded ; 
'*Sir Ridley MacNab with Milord wish'd to 
speak.'' 



174 LUCILE. 

Alfred Vargrave could feel there were tears oil'. 

his cheek. 
He brushed them away with a gesture of pride. 
He glanced at the glass ; when his own face 

he eyed, 
He was scared by his pallor. Inclining his. 

head, 
He with tones calm, unshaken, and silvery, 

said, 
**Sir Ridley may enter." 

In three minutes more 
That benign apparition appeared at the door. 
Sir Ridley, released for a while from the cares 
Of business, and minded to breathe the pure 

airs 
Of the blue Pyrenees, and enjoy his release, 
In company there with his sister and niece. 
Found himself now at Serchon — distributing 

tracts. 
Sowing seed by the way, and collecting new 

facts 
For Exeter Hall ; he was starting that night 
For Bigorre; he had heard, to his cordial de- 
light, 
That Lord Alfred was there, and, himself, 

setting out 
For the same destination ; impatient, no doubt! 
Here some commonplace compliments as to 

**the marriage" 
Through his speech trickled softly, like honey: 

his carriage 
Was ready. A storm seemed to threaten the 

weather ; 



LUCILE. 175 

If his young friend agreed, why not travel to- 
gether? 
With a footstep uncertain and restless, a frown 
Of perplexity, during this speech, up and 

down 
-Alfred Vargrave was striding; but, after a 

pause 
And a slight hesitation, the which seem*d to 

cause 
Some surprise to Sir Ridley, he answer'd — 

*'My dear 
'Sir Ridley, allow me a few moments here — 
Half an hour at the most — to conclude an affair 
Of a nature so urgent as hardly to spare 
My presence (which brought me, indeed, to 

this spot), 
Before I accept your kind offer.*' 

**Why not?" 
Said Sir Ridley, and smiled. Alfred Var- 
grave, before 
Sir Ridley observed it, had passed through the 

door. 
A few moments later, with footsteps revealing 
Intense agitation of uncontroU'd feeling. 
He was rapidly pacing the garden below. 
What pass'd through his mind then is more 

than I know. 
But before one half-hour into darkness had fled. 
In the court-yard he stood with Sir Ridley. 

His tread 
Was firm and composed. Not a sign on his 

face 
Betray 'd there the least agitation. **The 
place 



176 LUCILE. 

You so kindly have offer'd," he said, '*I 
accept. ' ' 

And he stretched out his hand. The two trav- 
elers stepped 

Smiling into the cariiage. 

And thus, out of sight, 

They drove down the dark road, and into the 
night. 

XXII. 

Sir Ridley was one of those wise men who, so 

far 
As their power of saying it goes, say with Zo- 

phar, 
**We, no doubt, are the people, and wisdom 

shall die with us!*' 
Though of wisdom like theirs there is no small 

supply with us. 
Side by side in the carriage ensconced, the two 

men 
Began to converse somewhat drowsily, when 
Alfred suddenly thought — '^Here's a man of 

ripe age. 
At my side, by his fellows reputed as sage. 
Who looks happy, and therefore who must have 

been wise; 
Suppose I with caution reveal to his eyes 
Some few of the reasons which make me be- 
lieve 
That I neither am happy nor wise? 'twould 

relieve 
And enlighten, perchance, my own darkness 

and doubt. ' ' 



LUCILE. 177 

For which purpose a feeler he softly put out. 
It was snapp'd up at once. 

**What is truth?" jesting Pilate 
Ask'd, and pass'd from the question at once 

with a smile at 
Its utter futility. Had he addressed it 
To Ridley MacNab, he at least had confessed it 
Admitted discussion ! and certainly no man 
Could more promptly have answer'd the skep- 
tical Roman 
Than Ridley! Hear some street astronomer 

talk! 
Grant him two or three hearers, a morsel of 

chalk, 
And forthwith on the pavement he'll sketch 

you the scheme 
Of the heavens. Then hear him enlarge on 

his theme. 
Not afraid of La Place, nor of Arago, he ! 
He'll prove you the whole plan in plain a b c. 
Here's you sun — call him a; b's the moon; it 

is clear 
How the rest of the alphabet brings up the rear 
Of the planets. Now ask Arago, ask La Place 
(Your sages who speak with the heavens face 

to face!), 
Their science in plain a b c to accord. 
To your point-blank inquiry, my friends! not 

a word 
Will you get for your pains from their sad lips. 

Alas! 
Not a drop from the bottle that's quite full 

will pass. 
'Tis the half -empty vessel that freest emits 

12 



178 LUCILE. 

The water that's in it. 'Tis thus with men's 

wits; 
Or at least with their knowledge. A man's 

capability 
Of imparting to others a truth with facility- 
Is proportioned forever with painful exactness 
To the portable nature, the vulgar compactness, 
The minuteness in size, or the lightness in 

weight, 
Of the truth he imparts. So small coins circu- 
late 
More freely than large ones. A beggar asks 

alms, 
And we fling him a sixpence, nor feel any 

qualms; 
But if every street charity shook an investment, 
Or each beggar to clothe we must strip of a 

vestment, 
The length of the process would limit the act; 
And therefore the truth that's summed up in 

a tract 
Is most likely dispensed. 

As for Alfred, indeed, 
Om what spoonfuls of truth he was suffer'd to 

feed 
By Sir Ridley, I know not. This only I know, 
That the two men thus talking continued to 

go 
Onward somehow, together — on into the night 
The midnight — in which they escape from our 

sight. 



LUCILE. 1791 

XXIII. 

And meanwhile a world had been changed in 

its place, 
And those glittering chains, that o*er bine 

balmy space 
Hang the blessing of darkness, had drawn out 

of sight 
To solace unseen hemispheres, the soft night , 
And the dew of the dayspring benignly de- 
scended, 
And the fair morn to all things new sanction 

extended. 
In the smile of the East. And the lark soar* 

ing on, 
Lost in light, shook the dawn with a song from 

the sun. 
And the world laugh 'd. 

It wanted but two rosy hours 
From the noon, when they passed through the 

thick passion flowers 
Of the little wild garden that dimpled before 
The small house where their carriage now 

stopped, at Bigorre. 
And more fair than the flowers, more fresh 

than the dew. 
With her white morning robe flitting joyously 

through 
The dark shrubs with which the soft hillside 

was clothed, 
Alfred Vargrave perceived, where he paused, 

his betrothed. 
Matilda sprang to him, at once, with a face 
Of such sunny sweetness, such gladness, such 

grace, 



180 LUCILE. 

And radiant confidence, childlike delight, 
That his whole heart upbraided itself at that 

sight, 
And he murmur 'd, or sigh*d, **0, how could I 

have stray 'd 
From this sweet child, or suffer *d in aught to 

invade 
Her young claim on my life, though it were 

for an hour, 
The thought of another?" 

"Look up, my sweet flower!" 
He whispered her softly, '*my heart unto thee 
Is return'd, as returns to the rose the wild 

bee!" 
*'And will wander no more?" laughed Matilda. 

*' No more," 
He repeated. And, low to himself, *'Yes, *tis 

o'er! 
My course, too, is decided, Lucile ! Was I 

blind 
To have dream'd that these clever French 

women of mind 
Could satisfy simply a plain English heart, 
Or sympathize with it?" 

XXIV. 

And here the first part 
Of the drama is over. The curtain falls furl'd 
On the actors within it — the Heart, and the 

World. 
Woo'd and wooer have played with the riddle 

of life,— 
Have they solved it? 

Appear! answer, Husband and Wife? 



LUCILE. 181 



XXV. 



Yet, ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevers, 
Hear her own hearths farewell in this letter of 
hers. 

THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO A FRIEND IN INDIA. 

**Once more, O my friend, to your arms and 

your heart. 
And the places of old . . . never, never to part ! 
Once more to the palm, and the fountain! 

Once more 
To the land of my birth, and the deep skies of 

yore! 
From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret 
Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set ; 
From the children that cry for the birth, and 

behold, 
There is no strength to bear them — old Time 

is so old ! 
From the world's weary masters, that com.e 

upon earth 
Sapp'd and mined by the fever they bear from 

their birth ; 
From the men of small stature, mere parts of 

a crowd, 
Born too late, when the strength of the world 

hath been bow'd; 
Back, — back to the orient, from whose sun- 
bright womb 
Sprang the giants which now are no more, in 

the bloom 
And the beauty of times that are faded forever ! 



182 LUCILE. 

To the palms ! to the tombs ! to the still Sacred 

River ! 
Where I too, the child of a day that is done, 
First leaped into life, and look'd up at the sun, 
Back again, back again, to the hill-tops of 

home 
I come O my friend, my consoler, I come J 
Are the three intense stars, that we watch'd 

night by night 
Burning broad on the band of Orion, as bright? 
Are the large Indian moons as serene as of old. 
When, as children, we gather'd the moonbeams 

for gold? 
Do you yet recollect me, my friend? Do you 

still 
Remember the free games we play'd on the 

hill, 
'Mid those huge stones upheav'd, where we 

recklessly trod 
O'er the old ruined fane of the old ruin'd god? 
How he frown*d while around him we care- 
lessly play'd! 
That frown on my life ever after hath stayed. 
Like the shade of a solemn experience upcast 
From some vague supernatural grief in the 

past. 
For the poor god, in pain, more than anger, 

he frown 'd. 
To perceive that our youth, though so fleeting, 

had found. 
In its transient and ignorant gladness, the bliss 
Which his science divine seem'd divinely to 

miss. 
Alas ! you may haply remember me yet 



LUCILE. 183 

The free child, whose glad childhood myself 

I forget. 
I come — a sad woman, defrauded of rest: 
I bear to you only a laboring breast : 
My heart is a storm-beaten ark, wildly hurl'd 
O'er the whirlpools of time, with the wrecks 

of a world : 
The dove from my bosom hath flown far away : 
It is flown and returns not, though many a day 
Have I watch'd from the windows of life for 

its coming. 
Friend, I sigh for repose, I am weary of roam- 
ing. 
I know not what Ararat rises for me 
Far away, o'er the waves of the wandering 

sea; 
I know not what rainbow may yet, from far 

hills, 
Lift the primrose of hope, the cessation of ills: 
But a voice, like the voice of my youth, in my 

breast 
Wakes and whispers me on — to the East ! to 

the East! 
Shall I find the child's heart that I left there? 

or find 
The lost youth I recall with its pure peace of 

mind? 



Alas! who shall number the drops of the rain? 
Or give to the dead leaves their greenness 

again? 
Who shall seal up the caverns the earthquake 

hath rent? 



184 LUCILE. 

Who shall bring forth the winds that within 

them are pent? 
To a voice who shall render an image? or who 
From the heats of the noontide shall gather 

the dew? 
I have burn'd out within me the fuel of life, 
Wherefore lingers the flame? Rest is sweet 

after strife. 
I would sleep for a while. I am weary. 

''My friend, 
I had meant in these lines to regather, and 

send 
To our old home, my life's scatter'd links. 

But 'tis vain! 
Each attempt seems to shatter the chaplet 

again; 
Only fit now for fingers like mine to run o'er. 
Who return, a recluse, to those cloisters of 

yore 
Whence too far I have wander'd. 

*'How many long years 
Does it seem to me now since the quick, scorch- 
ing tears. 
While I wrote to you, splash 'd out a girl's 

premature 
Moans of pain at what women in silence en- 
dure! 
To your eyes, friend of mine, and to your eyes 

alone. 
That now long-faded page of my life hath 

been shown 
Which recorded my heart's birth, and death, 

as you know. 
Many years since, — how many? 



LUCILE. 185 

**A few months ago 
I seemed reading it backward, that page! Why 

explain 
Whence or how? The old dream of my life 

rose again. 
The old superstition! the idol of old! 
It is over. The leaf trodden down in the mold 
Is not to the forest more lost than to me 
That emotion. I bury it here by the sea 
Which will bear me anon far away from the 

shore 
Of a land which my footsteps will visit no 

more. 
And a heart's requiescat I write on that grave. 
Hark! the sigh of the wind, and the sound of 

the wave, 
Seem like voices of spirits that whisper me 

home! 
I come, O you whispering voices, I come! 
My friend, ask me nothing. 

*' Receive me alone 
As a Santon receives to his dwelling of stone 
In silence some pilgrim the midnight may 

bring : 
It may be an angel that, weary of wing. 
Hath paused in his flight from some city of 

doom, 
Or only a wayfarer stray 'd in the gloom. 
This only I know : that in Europe at least 
Lives the craft or the power that must master 

our East. 
Wherefore strive where the gods must them- 
selves yield at last? 



1S6 LUCILE. 

Both they and their altars pass by with the 

Past. 
The gods of the household Time thrusts from 

the shelf; 
And I seem as unreal and weird to myself 
As these idols of old. 

*' Other times, other men, 
Other men, other passions! 

'^So be it! yet again 
I turned to my birthplace, the birthplace of 

morn, 
And the light of those lands where the great 

sun is born ! 
Spread your arms, O my friend! on your 

breast let me feel 
The repose which hath fled from my own. 

''Your LuciLE.'' 



LUCILE. 187 



PART 11. 



CANTO I. 
I. 

Hail, Muse ! But each Muse by this time has, I 

know. 
Been used up, and Apollo has bent his own 

bow 
All too long ; so I leave unassaulted the portal . 
Of Olympus, and only invoke here a mortal. 

Hail, Murray! — not Llndley, — but Murray and 

Son. 
Hail, omniscient, beneficent, great Two-in- 

One! 
In Albemarle Street may thy temple long 

stand ! 
Long enlighten 'd and led by thine erudite 

hand. 
May each novice in science nomadic unravel 
Statistical mazes of modernized travel! 
May each innkeeper knave long thy judgment 

revere. 
And the postboys of Europe regard thee with 

fear; 



188 LUCILE. 

While they feel, in the silence of baffled extor- 
tion, 
That knowledge is power! Long, long, like 

that portion 
Of the national soil which the Greek exile took 
In his baggage wherever he went, may thy book 
Cheer each poor British pilgrim, who trusts to 

thy wit 
Not to pay through his nose just for following 

it! 
May*st thou long, O instructor! preside o'er his 

way. 
And teach him alike what to praise and to pay! 
Thee, pursuing this pathway of song, once 

again 
I invoke, .lest, unskill'd, I should wander in 

vain. 
To my call be propitious, nor, churlish refuse 
Thy great accents to lend to the lips of my 

Muse; 
For I sing of the Naiads who dwell 'mid the 

stems 
Of the green linden-trees by the waters of Ems. 
Yes! thy spirit descends upon mine, O John 

Murray ! 
And I start — with thy book — for the Baths in a 

hurry. 

11. 

^*At Coblentz a bridge of boats crosses the 

Rhine; 
And from thence the road, winding by Ehren- 

breitstein. 
Passes over the frontier of Nassau. 



LUCILE. 189 

("N. B. 
No custom-house here since the Zollverein. " 

See 
Murray, paragraph 30 ) 

*'The route, at each turn, 
Here the lover of nature allows to discern, 
In varying prospects, a rich wooded dale : 
The vine and acacia-tree mostly prevail 
In the foliage observable here ; and, moreover, 
The soil is carbonic. The road, imder cover 
Of the grape-clad and mountainous upland that 

hems 
Round this beautiful spot, brings the traveler 

to— 

''EMS. 
A Schnellpost from Frankfort arrives every 

day. 
At the Kurhaus (the old Ducal mansion) you 

pay 
Eight florins for lodgings. A Restaurateur 
Is attached to the place; but most travelers 

prefer 
(Including, indeed, many persons of note) 
To dine at the usual-priced table d'hote. 
Through the town runs the Lahn, the steep 

green banks of which 
Two rows of white picturesque houses enrich, 
And between the high road and the river is 

laid 
Out a sort of a garden, call'd 'The Promenade. ' 
Female visitors here, who may make up their 

mind 
To ascend to the top of these mountains, will 

find 



IPO LUCILE. 



f 



On the banks of the stream, saddled all the day- 
long, 

Troops of donkeys — sure-footed — proverbially 
strong;*' 

And the traveler at Ems may remark, as he 
passes, 

Here, as elsewhere, the women run after the 
asses. 

III. 

'Mid the world's weary denizens bound for 

these springs 
In the month when the merle on the maple- 
bough sings. 
Pursued to the place from dissimilar paths 
By a similar sickness, there came to the baths 
Four sufferers — each stricken deep through the 

heart, 
Or the head, by the selfsame invisible dart 
Of the arrow that flieth unheard in the noonv 
From the sickness that walketh unseen in the 

moon. 
Through this great lazaretto of life, where in 

each 
Infects with his own sores the next within 

reach. 
First of these were a young English husband 

and wife, 
Grown weary ere half through the journey of 

life. 
O Nature, say where, thou gray mother of: 

earth, 
Is the strength of thy youth? that thy womb 

brings to birth 



m 

LUCILE. 191 

Only old men to-day! On the winds, as of old, 
Thy voice in its accent is joyous and bold ; 
Thy forests are green as of yore ; and thine 

oceans 
Yet move in the might of their ancient emo- 
tions : 
But man — thy last birth and thy best — is no 

more 
Life's free lord, that look'd up to the starlight 

of yore, 
With the faith on the brow, and the fire in the 

eyes. 
The firm foot on the earth, the high heart in 

the skies; 
But a gray-headed infant, defrauded of youth, 
Born too late or too early. 

The lady, in truth. 
Was young, fair, and gentle ; and never was 

given 
To more heavenly eyes the pure azure of 

heaven. 
Never yet did the sun touch to ripples of gold 
Tresses brighter than those which her soft 

hand unroird 
From her noble and innocent brow, when she 

rose, 
An Aurora, at dawn, from her balmy repose, 
And into the mirror the bloom and the blush 
Of her beauty broke, glowing; like light in a 

gush 
From the sunrise in summer. 

Love, roaming, shall meet 
But rarely a nature more sound or more 

sweet 



192 LUCILE. j 

Eyes brighter — brows whiter — a figure more 

fair 
Or lovelier lengths of more radiant hair — 
Than thine Lady Alfred ! And here I aver 
(May those that have seen thee declare if I err) 
That not all the oysters in Britain contain 
A pearl pure as thou art. 

Let some one explain, — 
Who may know more than I of the intimate life 
Of the pearl with the oyster, — why yet in his 

wife, 
In despite of her beauty — and most when he 

felt 
His soul to the sense of her loveliness melt — 
Lord Alfred miss'd something he sought for: 

indeed, 
The more that he miss'd it the greater the 

need; 
Till it seem'd to himself he could willingly 

spare 
All the charms that he found for the one charm 

not there. 

IV. 

For the blessings Life lends us, it strictly de- 
mands 

The worth of their full usufruct at our hands. 

And the value of all things exists, not indeed 

In themselves, but man's use of them, feeding 
man's need. 

Alfred Vargrave, in wedding with beauty and 
youth, 

Had embraced both Ambition and Wealth. 
Yet in truth 




Mid the dank weeds and grasses." — Page 161. 

Lucile. 



LUCILE. 193 

Unfulfiird the ambition, and sterile the wealth 
(In a life paralyzed by a moral ill-health) , 
Had remained, while the beauty and youth, 

unredeemed 
From a vague disappointment at all things, 

but seemed 
Day by day to reproach him in silence for all 
That lost youth in himself they had fail'd to 

recall 
No career had he followed, no object obtained 
In the world by those worldly advantages 

gained 
From nuptials beyond which once seem*d to 

appear, 
Lit by love, the broad path of a brilliant career. 
All that glittered and gleam'd through the 

moonlight of youth 
With a glory so fair, now that manhood in 

truth 
Grasp 'd and gathered it, seem'd like that false 

fairy gold 
Which leaves in the hand only moss, leaves and 

mould 



Fairy gold ! moss and leaves ! and the young 

Fairy Bride? 
Lived there yet fairy-lands in the face at his 

side? 
Say, O friend, if at evening thou ever hast 

watch 'd 
Some pale and impalpable vapor, detach 'd 
From the dim and disconsolate earth, rise and 

fall 

13 Lucile 



194 LUCILE. 

O'er the light of a sweet serene star, until all 
The chill'd splendor reluctantly waned in the 

deep 
Of its own native heaven? Even so seem'd to 

creep 
O'er that fair and ethereal face, day by day, 
While the radiant vermeil, subsiding away. 
Hid its light in the heart, and faint gradual veil 
Of a sadness unconscious. 

The lady grew pale 
As silent her lord grew : and both, as they eyed 
Each the other askance, turn'd, and secretly 

sigh'd 
Ah, wise friend, what avails all experience can 

give? 
True, we know what life is — but, alas ! do we 

live? 
The grammar of life we have gotten by heart, 
But life's self we have made a dead language 

— an art, 
Not a voice. Could we speak it, but once, as 

'twas spoken 
When the silence of passion the first time was 

broken ! 
Cuvier knew the world better than Adam, no 

doubt : 
But the last man, at best, was but learned 

about 
What the first, without learning, enjoy'd. 

What art thou 
To the man of to-day, O Leviathan, now? 
A science. What wert thou to him that from 

ocean 



.;: LUCILE. 195 

1' First beheld thee appear? A surprise, — an 

T emotion ! 

f When life leaps in the veins, when it beats in 

|: the heart, 

I When it thrills as it fills every animate part, 

\^ Where lurks it? how works it? . . . we scarcely 

I detect it! 

-^ But life goes: the heart dies: haste, O leech, 

> ■ and dissect it ! 

? This accursed sesthetical, ethical age 

Hath so finger'd life's hornbook, so blurr'd 

every page. 
That the old glad romance, the gay chivalrous 

story 
With its fables of faery, its legends of glory, 
Is turn'd to a tedious instruction, not new 
To the children that read it insipidly through. 
We know too much of Love ere we love. We 

can trace 
Nothing new, unexpected, or strange in his 

face 
When we see it at last. 'Tis the same little 

Cupid, 
With the same dimpled cheek, and the smile 

almost stupid. 
We have seen in our pictures, and stuck on 

our shelves. 
And copied a hundred times over, ourselves, 
And wherever we turn, and whatever we do, 
Still that horrible sense of the deja comiu/ 

VI. 

Perchance 'twas the fault of the life that they 
led; 



196 LUCILE. 

Perchance 'twas the fault of the novels they 

read; 
Perchance 'twas the fault in themselves; I am 

bound not 
To say: this I know — that these two creatures 

found not 
In each other some sign they expected to find 
Of a something unnamed in the heart or the 

mind ; 
And, missing it, each felt a right to complain 
Of a sadness which each found no word to 

explain. 
Whatever it was, the world noticed not it 
In the light-hearted beauty, the light-hearted 

wit. 
Still, as once with the actors in Greece, 'tis the 

case, 
Each must speak to the crown with a mask on 

his face. 
Praise follow'd Matilda wherever she went. 
She was flatter'd. Can flattery purchase con- 
tent? 
Yes. While to its voice, for a moment, she 

listen'd, 
The young cheek still bloom 'd and the soft eyes 

still glisten'd; 
And her lord, when, like one of those light 

vivid things 
That glide down the gauzes of summer with 

wings 
Of rapturous radiance, unconscious she moved 
Through that buzz of inferior creatures, which 

proved 
Her beauty, their envy, one moment forgot, 



LUCILE. 197 

'Mid the many charms there, the one charm 

that was not: 
And when o'er her beauty enraptured he bow'd 
(As they turn'd to each other, each flush'd from 

the crowd), 
And murmur'd those praises which yet seem'd 

more dear 
Than the praises of others had grown to her 

ear. 
She, too, ceased awhile her own fate to regret: 
'*Yes! ... he loves me," she sigh'd; ''this is 

love, then — and yet!" 

VII. 

Ah, that yet! fatal word! 'tis the moral of all 
Thought and felt, seen or done, in this world 

since the Fall ! 
It stands at the end of each sentence we learn : 
It flits in the vista of all w^e discern ; 
It leads us, forever and ever, away. 
To find in to-morrow what flies with to-day. 
'Twas this same little fatal and mystical word 
That now, like a mirage, led my lady and lord 
To the waters of Ems from the waters of 

Mar ah ! 
Drooping pilgrims in Fashion's blank, arid 

Sahara. 

VIII. 

At the same time, pursued by a spell much the 

same, 
To these waters two other worn pilgrims there 

came; 



198 LUCILE. 

One a man, one a woman : just now, at the 

latter, 
As the Reader I mean by and by to look at her 
And judge for himself, I will not even glance. 

IX. 

Of the self-crown'd young kings of the Fashion 

in France 
Whose resplendent regalia so dazzled the sight, 
Whose horse was so perfect, whose boots were 

so bright, 
Who so hailed in the salon, so marked in the 

Bois, 
Who so welcomed by all, as Eugene de Luvois? 
Of all the smooth-brow'd premature debauchees 
In that town of all towns, where Debauchery 

sees 
On the forehead of youth her mark everywhere 

graven, — 
In Paris I mean, — where the streets are all 

paven 
By those two fiends whom Milton saw bridging 

the way 
From Hell to this planet, — who, haughty and 

gay, 
The free rebel of life, bound or led by no law, 
Walk'd that causeway as bold as Eugene de 

Luvois? 
Yes! he march'd through the great masquerade, 

loud of tongue, 
Bold of brow: but the motley he mask'd in, it 

hung 
So loose, trail' d so wide, and appear M to 

impede 



LUCILE. 199 

So strangely at times the vex'd effort at speed, 
That a keen eye might guess it was made — not 

for him, 
But some brawler more stalwart of stature and 

limb. 
That it irk*d him, in truth, you at times could 

divine, 
For when low was the music, and split was 

the wine 
He would clutch at the garment, as though 

it oppressed 
And stifled some impulse that choked in his 

breast. 



What! he, . . . the light sport of his frivolous 
ease ! 

Was he, too, a prey to a mortal disease? 

My friend, hear a parable ; ponder it well, 

For a moral there is in the tale that I tell. 

One evening, I sat in the Palais Royal, 

And there, while I laugh'd at Grassot and Arnal, 

My eye fell on the face of a man at my side ; 

Every time that he laugh'd I observed that he 
sighed, 

As though vex'd to be pleased. I remark'd 
that he sat 

111 at ease on his seat, and kept twirling his hat 

In his hand, with a look of unquiet abstraction. 

I inquired the cause of his dissatisfaction. 

**Sir, " he said, '*if what vexes me here you 
would know. 

Learn that, passing this way some few half- 
hours ago, 



200 LUCILE. 

I walked into the Frangais, to look at Rachel. 
(Sir, that woman in Phedre is a miracle!) — 

Well 
I ask'd for a box: they were occupied all: 
For a seat in the balcony : all taken ! a stall : 
Taken too: the whole house was as full as 

could be, — 
Not a hole for a rat ! I had just time to see 
The lady I love tete-a-tete with a friend 
In a box out of reach at the opposite end : 
Then the crowd push'd me out. What was 

left me to do? 
I tried for the tragedy . . . que voulez-vous? 
Everyplace for the tragedy book 'd! . . . mon 

ami. 
The farce was close by: ... at the farce me 

void! 
The piece is a new one; and Grassot plays 

well: 
There is drollery, too, in that fellow Ravel : 
And Hyacinth's nose is superb! . . . yet I 

meant 
My evening elsewhere, and not thus, to have 

spent. 
Fate orders these things by her will, not by 

ours! 
Sir, mankind is the sport of invisible powers. *' 



I once met the Due de Luvois for a moment; 
And I mark'd when his features I fix'd in my 

comment, 
O'er those features the same vague disquietude 

stray 



LUCILE. 201 

I had seen on the face of my friend at the 

play; 
And I thought that he too, very probably, spent 
His evenings not wholly as first he had meant. 

XI. 

O source of the holiest joys we inherit, 

O Sorrow, thou solemn, invisible spirit! 

Ill fares it with man when, through life's desert 

sand. 
Grown impatient too soon for the long promised 

land, 
He turns from the worship of thee, as thou 

art, 
An expressless and imageless truth in the 

heart. 
And takes of the jewels of Egypt, the pelf 
And the gold of the Godless, to make to him- 
self, 
A gaudy, idolatrous image of thee. 
And then bows to the sound of the cymbal the 

knee. 
The sorrows we make to ourselves are false 

gods; 
Like the prophets of Baal, our bosoms with 

rods 
We may smite, we may gash at our hearts till 

they bleed. 
But these idols are blind, deaf, and dumb to 

our need. 
The land is athirst, and cries out! ... 'tis in 

vain; 
The great blessing of Heaven descends not in 

rain. 

14 Lucile 



202 LUCILE. I 

XII. 

It was night; and the lamps were beginning to j 
gleam 

Through the long linden-trees, folded each in 
his dream, 

From that building which looks like a temple 
. . . and his 

The Temple of— Health? Nay, but enter! I 
wish 

That never the rosy-hued deity knew 

One votary out of that sallow-cheek 'd crew 

Of Courlanders, Wallacs, Greeks, affable Rus- 
sians, 

Explosive Parisians, potato-faced Prussians; 

Jews — Hamburghers chiefly: — pure patriots. — 
Suabians; — 

*'Cappadocians and Elamites, Cretes and Arabi- 
ans, 

And the dwellers in Pontus" . . . My muse 
will not weary 

More lines with the list of them . . . cur 
fremuere? 

What is it they murmur, and mutter, and hum? 

Into what Pandemonium is Pentecost come? 

Oh, what is the name of the god at whose fane 

Every nation is mix*d in so motley a train? 

What weird Kabala lies on those tables out- 
spread? 

To what oracle turns with attention each head? 

What holds these pale worshipers each so 
devout. 

And what are those hierophants busied about? 



LUCILE. 203 



XIII. 



Here passes, repasses, and flits to and fro, 
And rolls without ceasing the great Yes and 

No: 
Round this altar alternate the weird Passions 

dance, 
And the God worshiped here is the old God of 

Chance. 
Through the wide-open doors of the distant 

saloon 
Flute, hautboy, and fiddle are squeaking in 

tune ; 
And an indistinct music forever is roird, 
That mixes and chimes with the chink of the 

gold. 
From a vision, that flits in a luminous haze, 
Of figures forever eluding the gaze ; 
It fleets through the doorway, it gleams on the 

glass. 
And the weird words pursue it — Rouge Impair, 

et Passe! 
Like a sound borne in sleep through such 

dreams as encumber 
With haggard emotions the wild wicked slum- 
ber 
Of some witch when she seeks, through a 

nightmare, to grab at 
The hot hoof of the fiend, on her way to the 

Sabbat. 

XIV. 

The Due de Luvois and Lord Alfred had met 
Some few evenings ago (for the season as yet 



204 LUCILE. 

Was but young) in this selfsame Pavilion of 
Chance. 

The idler from England, the idler from France 

Shook hands, each, of course, with much cor- 
dial pleasure : 

An acquaintance at Ems is to most men a 
treasure. 

And they both were too well-bred in aught to 
betray 

One discourteous remembrance of things pass'd 
away. 

'Twas a sight that was pleasant, indeed, to be 
seen. 

These friends exchange greetings; — the men 
who had been 

Foes so nearly in days that were past. 

This, no doubt 

Is why, on the night I am speaking about. 

My Lord Alfred sat down by himself at rou- 
lette. 

Without one suspicion his bosom to fret, 

Although he had left, with his pleasant French 
friend, 

Matilda, half vex'd, at the room's farthest end. 

XV. 

Lord Alfred his combat with Fortune began 
With a few modest thalers — away they all 

ran — 
The reserve followed fast in the rear. As his 

purse 
©rew lighter his spirits grew sensibly worse. 
One needs not a Bacon to find a cause for it: 
*Tis an old law in physics — Natura abhorret 



LUCILE. 205 

Vactium — and my lord, as he watch *d his last 

crown 
Tumble into the bank, turn'd away with a 

frown 
Which the brows of Napoleon himself might 

have decked 
On that day of all days when an empire was 

wrecked 
On thy plain, Waterloo, and he witnessed the 

last 
Of his favorite Guard cut to pieces, aghast ! 
Just then Alfred felt, he could scarcely tell 

why, 
Within him the sudden strange sense that some 

eye 
Had long been intently regarding him there, — 
That some gaze was upon him too searching 

to bear. 
He rose and look'd up. Was it fact? Was it 

fable? 
Was it dream? Was it waking? Across the 

green table. 
That face, with its features so fatally known — 
Those eyes, whose deep gaze answered 

strangely his own — 
What was it? Some ghost from its grave come 

again? 
Some cheat of a feverish, fanciful brain? 
Or was it herself — with those deep eyes of hers, 
And that face unforgotten? — Lucile de Nevers! 

XVI. 

Ah, well that pale woman a phantom might 
seem, 



206 LUCILE. 

Who appeared to herself but the dream of a 

dream ! 
'Neath those features so calm, that fair fore« 

head so hush'd, 
That pale cheek forever by passion unflush'd, 
There yawned an insatiate void, and there 

heaved 
A tumult of restless regrets unrelieved. 
A brief noon of beauty was passing away. 
And the chill of the twilight fell, silent and 

gray, 
O'er that deep, self-perceived isolation of soul. 
And now, as all around her the deep evening 

stole. 
With its weird desolations, she inwardly grieved 
For the want of that tender assurance received 
From the warmth of a whisper, the glance of 

an eye, 
Which should say, or should look, "Fear thou 

naught, — I am by!" 
And thus, through that lonely and self-fix'd 

existence, 
Crept a vague sense of silence, and horror, and 

distance: 
A strange sort of faint- footed fear, — like a 

mouse 
That comes out, when 'tis dark, in some old 

ducal house 
Long deserted, where no one the creature can 

scare, 
And the forms on the arras are all that move 

there. 



LUCILE. 207 

In Rome, — in the Forum, — there open'd one 

night 
A gulf. All the augurs turned pale at the 

sight. 
In this omen the anger of Heaven they read. 
Men consulted the gods: then the oracle 

said : — 
''Ever open this gulf shall endure, till at last 
That which Rome hath most precious within 

it be cast." 
The Romans threw in it their corn and their 

stuff. 
But the gulf yawn'd as wide. Rome seem'd 

likely enough 
To be ruin'd ere this rent in her heart she could 

choke. 
Then Curtius, revering the oracle, spoke : 
''O Quirites! to this Heaven's question is come: 
What to Rome is more precious? The man- 

. hood of Rome." 
He plunged, and the gulf closed. 

The tale is not new; 
But the moral applies many ways, and is true. 
How, for hearts rent in twain, shall the curse 

be destroy'd? 
'Tis a warm human life that must fill up the 

void. 
Through many a heart runs the rent in the 

fable; 
But who to discover a Curtius is able? 

XVII. 

Back she came from her long hiding-place, at 
the source 



208 LUCILE. 

Of the sunrise; where, fair in their fabulous 

course, 
Run the rivers of Eden : an exile again. 
To the cities of Europe — the scenes and the 

men. 
And the life, and the ways, she had left : still 

oppressed 
With the same hungry heart, and unpeaceable 

breast. 
The same, to the same things ! The world, she 

had quitted 
With a sigh, with a sigh she re-enter'd. Soon 

flitted 
Through the salons and clubs, to the great sat- 
isfaction 
Of Paris, the news of a novel attraction. 
The enchanting Lucile, the gay Countess, once 

more 
To her old friend, the World, had reopened her 

door; 
The World came, and shook hands, and was 

pleased and amused 
With what the World then went away and 

abused. 
From the woman's fair fame it in naught could 

detract : 
*Twas the woman's free genius it vex'd and 

attacked 
With a sneer at her freedom of action and 

speech. 
But its light careless cavils, in truth, could not 

reach 
The lone heart they aim'd at. Her tears fell 

beyond 



LUCILE. 20^ 

The world's limit, to feel that the world could 

respond 
To that heart's deepest, innermost yearning, 

in naught 
'Twas no longer this earth's idle inmates she 

sought : 
The wit of the woman sufficed to engage 
In the women's gay court the first men of the 

age. 
Some had genius; and all, wealth of mind to 

confer 
On the world: but that wealth was not lav- 
ish 'd for her. 
For the genius of man, though so human 

indeed, 
When call'd out to man's help by some great 

human need. 
The right to a man's chance acquaintance 

refuses 
To use what it hoards for mankind's nobler 

uses. 
Genius touches the world at but one point 

alone 
Of that spacious circumference, never quite 

known 
To the world ; all the infinite number of lines 
That radiate thither a mere point combines. 
But one only, — some central aflPection apart 
From the reach of the world, in which Genius 

is Heart, 
And love, life's fine center, includes heart and 

mind. 
And therefore it was that Lucile sigh'd to find 
Men of genius appear, one and all in her ken, 

14 



210 LUCILE. 

When they stoop'd themselves to it, as mere 

clever men; 
Artists, statesmen, and they in whose works 

are unfurl' d 
Worlds new-fashion'd for man, as mere men of 

the world. 
And so, as alone now she stood, in the sight 
Of the sunset of youth, with her face from the 

light. 
And watch 'd her own shadow grow long at her 

feet, 
As though stretch'd out, the shade of some 

other to meet, 
The woman felt homeless and childless: in 

scorn 
She seem'd mock'd by the voices of children 

unborn ; 
And when from these somber reflections away 
She turn'd, with a sigh, to that gay world, 

more gay 
For her presence within it, she knew herself 

friendless; 
That her path led from peace, and that path 

appear'd endless! 
That even her beauty had been but a snare. 
And her wit sharpened only the edge of 

despair. 

XVIII. 

With a face all transfigured and flush 'd by 

surprise, 
Alfred turn'd to Lucile. With those deep 

searching eyes 



LUCILE. 211 

She looked into his own. Not a word that she 

said, 
Not a look, not a blush, one emotion betray'd. 
She seem'd to smile through him, at something 

beyond : 
When she answer'd his questions, she seem'd 

to respond 
To some voice in herself. With no trouble 

descried, 
To each troubled inquiry she calmly replied, 
Not so he. At the sight of that face back 

ag^in 
To his mind came the ghost of a long stifled 

pain, 
A remembered resentment, half checked by a 

wild 
And relentful regret like a motherless child 
Softly seeking admittance, with plaintive 

appeal. 
To the heart which resisted its entrance. 

Lucile 
And himself thus, however, with freedom 

allow'd 
To old friends, talking still side by side, left 

the crowd 
By the crowd unobserved. Not unnoticed, 

however. 
By the Duke and Matilda. Matilda had never 
Seen her husband's new friend. 

She had followed by chance, 
Or by instinct, the sudden half-menacing glance 
Which the Duke, when he witnessed their 

meeting, had turn'd, 



212 LUCILE. 

On Lucile and Lord Alfred; and, scared, she 

discerned 
On his feature the shade of a gloom so pro- 
found 
That she shuddered instinctively. Deaf to the 

sound 
Of her voice, to some startled inquiry of hers 
He replied not, but murmur 'd, ''Lucile de 

Nevers, 
Once again then? so be it!'* In the mind of 

that man. 
At that moment, there shaped itself vaguely 

the plan 
Of a purpose malignant and dark, such alone 
(To his own secret heart but imperfectly shown) 
As could spring from the cloudy, fierce chaos 

of thought 
By which all his nature to tumult was wrought. 

XIX. 

"So!" he thought, "they meet thus: and 

reweave the old charm ! 
And sh» hangs on his voice, and she leans on 

his arm. 
And she heeds me not, seeks me not, recks not 

of me! 
Oh, what if I show'd her that I, too, can be 
Loved by one — her own rival — more fair and 

more young?" 
The serpent rose in him: a serpent which, 

stung, 
Sought to sting. 

Each unconscious, indeed, of the eye 



LUCILE. 213 

Fix'd upon them, Lucile and my lord saun- 
tered by, 

In converse which seem'd to be earnest. A 
smile 

Now and then seem'd to show where their 
thoughts touch'd. Meanwhile 

The Muse of this story, convinced that they 
need her, 

To the Duke and Matilda returns, gentle 
Reader. 

XX. 

The Duke, with that sort of aggressive false 

praise 
Which is meant a resentful remonstrance to 

raise 
From a listener (as sometimes a judge, just 

before 
He pulls down the black cap, very gently goes 

o*er ^ 

The case for the prisoner, and deals tenderly 
With the man he is minded to hang by and by), 
Had referr'd to' Lucile, and then stopp'd to 

detect 
In the face of Matilda the growing ejBfect 
Of the words he had dropp'd. There's no 

weapon that slays 
Its victim so surely (if well aim'd) as praise. 
Thus, a pause on their converse had fallen: 

and now 
Each was silent, preoccupied, thoughtful. 

You know 
There are moments when silence, prolong 'd 

and unbroken. 



214 LUCILE. 

More expressive may be than all words ever 

spoken. 
It is when the heart has an instinct of what 
In the heart of another is passing. And that 
In the heart of Matilda, what was it? Whence 

came 
To her cheek on a sudden that tremulous flame? 
What weighed down her head? 

All your eye could discover 
Was the fact that Matilda was troubled. More- 
over 
That trouble the Duke's presence seem'd to 

renew. 
She, however, broke silence, the first of the 

two. 
The Duke was too prudent to shatter the spell 
Of a silence which suited his purpose so 

well. 
She was plucking the leaves from a pale blush 

rose blossom ^ 

Which had fall'n from the nosegay she wore 

in her bosom. 
**This poor flower," she said, '* seems it not 

out of place 
In this hot, lamplit air, with its fresh, fragile 

grace?'' 
She bent her head low as she spoke. With a 

smile 
The Duke watch 'd her caressing the leaves all 

the while, 
And continued on his side the silence. He 

knew 
This would force his companion their talk to 

renew 



LUCILE. 215 

At the point that he wish'd; and Matilda 

divined 
The significant pause with new trouble of 

mind. 
She lifted one moment her head; but her look 
Encountered the ardent regard of the Duke, 
And dropp'd back on her floweret abash'd. 

Then, still seeking 
The assurance she fancied she show*d him by 

speaking, 
She conceived herself safe in adopting again 
The theme she should most have avoided just 

then. 

XXI. 

**Duke, " she said, . . . and she felt, as she 

spoke, her cheek burn'd, 
**You know, then, this . . . lady?'* 

** Too well!" he return 'd. 

Matilda. 

True; you drew with emotion her portrait just 
now. 

Luvois. 
With emotion? 

Matilda. 

Yes, yes ! you described her, I know, 
As possess'd of a charm all unrival'd. 

Luvois. 

Alas! 
You mistook me completely! You, madam, 

surpass 
This lady as moonlight does lamplight; as 
vouth 



216 LUCILE. 

Surpasses its best imitations; as truth 
The fairest of falsehoods surpasses ; as nature 
Surpasses art's masterpiece; ay, as the creature 
Fresh and pure in its native adornment sur- 
passes 
All the charms got by heart at the world's 

looking-glasses ! 
*'Yet you said," — she continued with some 

trepidation, 
** That you quite comprehended" ... a slight 

hesitation 
Shook the sentence, . . . **a passion so strong 
as" . . . 

Luvois. 

**True, true! 
But not in a man that had once look'd at you. 
Nor can I conceive, or excuse, or . . . 

*'Hush! hush!" 
She broke in, all more fair for one innocent 

blush, 
''Between man and woman these things differ 

so! 
It may be that the world pardons . . . (how 

should I know?) 
In you what it visits on us; or 'tis true, 
It may be that we women are better than 
you. ' ' 

Luvois. 

Who denies it? Yet, madam, once more you 

mistake. 
The world,in its judgment, some difference may 

make 



LUCILE. 217 

'Twixt the man and the woman, so far as 

respects 
Its social enchantments; but not as affects 
The one sentiment which it were easy to 

prove, 
Is the sole law we look to the moment we love. 

Matilda. 

That may be. Yet I think I would be less 

severe, 
Although so inexperienced in such things, I 

fear 
I have learn'd that the heart cannot always 

repress 
Or account for the feelings which sway it. 

^*Yes! yes! 
That is too true, indeed'* . . . the Duke sigh'd. 

And again 
For one moment in silence continued the twain. 

XXII. 

At length the Duke slowly, as though he had 
needed 

All this time to repress his emotions, pro- 
ceeded : 

''And yet! . . . what avails, then, to woman 
the gift 

Of a beauty like yours, if it cannot uplift 

Her heart from the reach of one doubt, one 
despair, 

One pang of wrong 'd love, to which women 
less fair 

Are exposed, when they love?** 

With a quick change of tone, 



218 LUCILE. 

As though by resentment impelled, he went 

on: — 
"The name that you bear, it is whisper'd you 

took 
From love, not convention. Well, say, . . . 

that look 
So excited, so keen, on the face you must know 
Throughout all its expressions, — that raptur- 
ous glow, 
Those eloquent features — significant eyes — 
Which that pale woman sees, yet betrays no 

surprise," 
(He pointed his hand, as he spoke, to the door. 
Fixing with it Lucile and Lord Alfred) . . . 

*' before. 
Have you ever once seen what just now you 

may view 
In that face so familiar? . . . no, lady, 'tis new. 
Young, lovely, and loving, no doubt, as you are. 
Are you loved?" . . . 

XXIII. 

He looked at her — paused — felt if thus far 

The ground held yet. The ardor with which 
he had spoken, 

This close, rapid question, thus suddenly 
broken. 

Inspired in Matilda a vague sense of fear, 

As though some indefinite danger were near. 

With composure, however, at once she re- 
plied : — 

** 'Tis three years since the day when I first 
was a bride. 

And my husband I never had cause to suspect; 



f LUCILE. 219 

I 

Nor ever have stoop'd, sir, such cause to 
detect. 

Yet if in his looks or his acts I should see — 

See, or fancy — some moment's oblivion of me, 

I trust that I too should forget it, — for you 

Must have seen that my heart is my hus- 
band's.'* 

The hue 

On her cheek, with the effort wherewith to the 
Duke 

She had uttered this vague and half frightened 
rebuke. 

Was white as the rose in her hand. The last 
word 

Seem'd to die on her lip, and could scarcely 
be heard. 

There was silence again, 

A great step had been made 

By the Duke in the words he that evening had 
said. 

There, half drown'd by the music, Matilda, 
that night. 

Had listen'd, — long listen'd — no doubt, in de- 
spite 

Of herself, to a voice she should never have 
heard. 

And her heart by that voice had been troubled 
and stirr'd. 

And so having suffered in silence his eye 

To fathom her own, he resumed, with a sigh: 

XXIV. 

*'Will you suffer me, lady, your thoughts to 
invade 



220 LUCILE. 

By disclosing my own? The position," he 

said, 
*'In which we so strangely seem placed may 

excuse 
The frankness and force of the words which I 

use. 
You say that your heart is your husband's: 

You say 
That you love him. You think so, of course, 

lady . . . nay, 
Such a love, I admit, were a merit, no doubt. 
But, trust me, no true love there can be with- 
out 
Its dread penalty — jealousy. 

'''Well, do not start! 
Until now, — either thanks to a singular art 
Of supreme self-control, you have held them 

all down 
Unreveal'd in your heart, — or you never have 

known 
Even one of those fierce irresistible pangs 
Which deep passion engenders, that anguish 

which hangs 
On the heart like a nightmare, by jealousy 

bred. 
But if, lady, the love you describe, in the bed 
Of a blissful security thus hath reposed 
Undisturb'd, with mild eyelids on happiness 

closed. 
Were it not to expose to a peril unjust, 
And most cruel, that happy repose you so 

trust. 
To meet, to receive, and, indeed, it may be, 
For how long I know not, continue to see 



LUCILE. 221 

A woman whose place rivals yours in the life 
And the heart which not only your title of 

wife, 
But also (forgive me !) your beauty alone, 
Should have made wholly yours? — You, who 

gave all your own ! 
Reflect! — 'tis the peace of existence you stake 
On the turn of a die. And for whose — for his 

sake? 
While you witness this woman, the false point 

of view 
From which she must now be regarded by you 
Will exaggerate to you, whatever they be, 
The charms I admit she possesses. To me 
They are trivial indeed; yet to your eyes, I 

fear 
And foresee, they will true and intrinsic 

appear. 
Self-unconscious, and sweetly unable to guess 
How more lovely by far is the grace you pos- 
sess. 
You will wrong your own beauty. The graces 

of art. 
You will take for the natural charm of the 

heart ; 
Studied manners, the brilliant and bold re- 
partee. 
Will too soon in that fatal comparison be 
To your fancy more fair than the sweet timid 

sense 
Which, in shrinking, betrays its own best elo- 
quence. 
O then, lady, then, you will feel in your heart 
The poisonous pain of a fierce jealous dart! 



222 LUCILE. 

While you see her, yourself you no longer will 

see, — 
You will hear her, and hear not yourself, — you 

will be 
Unhappy; unhappy, because you will deem 
Your old power less great than her power 

will seem. 
And I shall not be by your side, day by day, 
In despite of your noble displeasure, to say 
*You are fairer than she, as the star is more 

fair 
Than the diamond, the brightest that beauty 

can wear!' " 

XXV. 

This appeal, both by looks and by language, 

increased 
The trouble Matilda felt grow in her breast. 
Still she spoke with what calmness she could — 

''Sir, the while 
I thank you,*' she said, with a faint scornful 

smile, 
*' For your fervor in painting my fancied dis- 
tress : 
Allow me the right some surprise to express 
At the zeal you betray in disclosing to me 
The possible depth of my own misery. " 
"That zeal would not startle you, madam," he 

said, 
*' Could you read in my heart, as myself I have 

read, 
The peculiar interest which causes that zeal—** 
Matilda her terror no more could conceal. 



LUCILE. 223 

*'Duke/* she answer'd in accents short, cold 

and severe, 
As she rose from her seat, '*I continue to hear; 
But permit me to say, I no more understand.*' 
*' Forgive! "with a nervous appeal of the hand, 
And a well-feign 'd confusion of voice and of 

look, 
*' Forgive, oh, forgive me!*' at once cried the 

Duke. 
**I forgot that you know me so slightly. Your 

leave 
I entreat (from your anger those words to re- 
trieve) 
For one moment to speak of myself, — for I 

think 
That you wrong me — ' ' 

His voice, as in pain, seem'd to sink; 
And tears in his eyes, as he lifted them, 

glisten *d. 

XXVI. 

Matilda, despite of herself, sat and listened. 

XXVII. 

* ^Beneath an exterior which seems, and may 

be, 
Worldly, frivolous, careless, my heart hides in 

me,'* 
He continued, *'a sorrow which draws me to 

side 
With all things that suffer. Nay, laugh not," 

he cried, 
''At so strange an avowal. 

''I seek at a ball, 



224 LUCILE. 

For instance, — the beauty admired by all? 
No! some plain, insignificant creature, who 

sits 
Scorn'dof course by the beauties, and shunn'd 

by the wits 
All the world is accustomed to wound, or 

neglect, 
Or oppress, claims my heart and commands 

my respect. 
No Quixote, I do not affect to belong, 
I admit, to those charter'd redressers of wrong; 
But I seek to console, where I can. 'Tis a 

part 
Not brilliant, I own, yet its joys bring no 

smart." 
These trite words, from the tone which he 

gave them received 
An appearance of truth which might well be 

believed 
By a heart shrewder yet than Matilda's. 

And so 
He continued . . . **0 lady! alas, could you 

know 
What injustice and wrong in this world I have 

seen! 
How many a woman, believed to have been 
Without a regret, I have known turn aside 
To burst into heartbroken tears undescried! 
On how many a lip have I witnessed the smile 
Which but hid what was breaking the poor 

heart the while!'' 
Said Matilda, *'Your life, it would seem, then, 

must be 
One long act of devotion." 



LUCILE. 225 

* * Perhaps so, ' ' said he ; 
**But at least that devotion small merit can 

boast, 
For one day may yet come, — if one day at the 

most, 
When, perceiving at last all the difference — 

how great! — 
'Twixt the heart that neglects, and the heart 

that can wait, 
* Twixt the natures that pity, the natures that 

pain, 
Some woman, that else might have pass'd in 

disdain 
Or indifference by me, — in passing that day 
Might pause with a word or a smile to repay 
This devotion, — and then" . . . 

XXVIII. 

To Matilda's relief 
At that moment her husband approached 

With some grief 
I must own that her welcome, perchance, was 

expressed 
The more eagerly just for one twinge in her 

breast 
Of a conscience disturb'd, and her smile not 

less warm ; 
Though she saw the Comtesse de Nevers on 

his arm 
The Duke turned and adjusted his collar. 

Thought he, 
**Good! the gods fight my battle to-night. I 

foresee 
That the family doctor's the part I must play. 

15 Lacile 



^26 LUCILE. 

Very well! but the patients my visits shall 
pay/' 

Lord Alfred presented Lncile to his wife ; 

And Matilda, repressing with effort the strife 

Of emotions which made her voice shake, mur- 
mnr'd low 

Some faint, troubled greeting. The Duke, 
with a bow 

Which betokened a distant defiance, replied 

To Lucile's startled cry, as surprised she de- 
scried 

Her former gay wooer. Anon, with the grace 

Of that kindness which seeks to win kindness, 
her place 

She assumed by Matilda, unconscious, per- 
chance, 

Or resolved not to notice the half-frighten'd , 
glance 

That foUow'd that movement. 

The Duke to his feet 

Arose; and, in silence, relinquished his seat. 

One must own that the moment was awkward 
for all ; 

But nevertheless, before long, the strange thrall 

Of Lucile's gracious tact was by every one felt, 

And from each the reserve seem'd, reluctant, 
to melt; 

Thus, conversing together, the whole of the 
four 

T'hro' the crowd sauntered smiling. 



LUCILE. 227 



XXIX. 



Approaching- the door^ 
Eugene de Luvois, who had fallen behind, 
By Lucile, after some hesitation, was join'd 
With a gesture of gentle and kindly appeal, 
Which appear' d to imply, without words, *'Let 

us feel 
That the friendship between us in years that 

are fled 
Has survived one mad moment forgotten, " she 

said, 
**You remain, Duke, at Ems?" 

He turn'd on her a look 
Of frigid, resentful, and sullen rebuke ; 
And then, with a more than significant glance 
At Matilda, maliciously answer' d, ** Perchance 
I have here an attraction. And you?" he 

returned. 
Lucile's eyes had follow 'd his own, and dis- 
cern *d 
The boast they implied. 

He repeated, **And you?" 
And, still watching Matilda, she answered, *'I 

too." 
And he thought, as with that word she left. 

him, she sigh'd. 
The next moment her place she resum.ed by the 

side 
Of Matilda; and soon they shook hands at the 

gate 
Of the selfsame hotel. 



228 LUCILE. 

XXX. 

One depressed, one elate, 

The Duke and Lord Alfred again, thro' the 
glooms 

Of the thick linden alley, return'd to the 
Rooms. 

His cigar each had lighted, a moment before, 

At the inn, as they turn'd, arm-in-arm, from 
the door. 

Ems cigars do not cheer a man's spirits experto 

{Me misenim qtcotiesf) crede Roberto. 

In silence, awhile, they walk'd onward. 

At last 

The Duke's thoughts to language half con- 
sciously pass'd. 

Luvois. 

Once more ! yet once more ! 

Alfred. 

What? 

Luvois. 

We meet her, once more, 
The woman for whom we two madmen of yore 
{Laugh, moil cher Alfred, laugh!) were about 

to destroy 
Each other! 

Alfred. 

It is not with laughter that I 
Raise the ghost of that once troubled time. 

Say! can you 
Recall it with coolness and quietude now? 



LUCILE. 229 

Luvois. 

Now? yes! I, mon cher, am a true Parisien: 
Now, the red revolution, the tocsin, and then 
The dance and the play. I am now at the play. 

Alfred. 

At the play, are you now? Then perchance I 

now may 
Presume, Duke, to ask you what, ever until 
Such a moment, I waited . . . 

Luvois. 

Oh ! ask what you will 
Franc jeu! on the table my cards I spread out. 

Ask! 

Alfred. 

Duke, you were call'd to a meeting (no doubt 
You remember it yet) with Lucile. It was 

night 
When you went; and before you return'd it 

was light. 
We met : you accosted me then with a brow 
Bright with triumph : your words (you remem- 
ber them now !) 
Were ''Let us be friends!" 

Luvois. 

Well? 

Alfred. 

How then, after that, 
Can you and she meet as acquaintances? 



230 LUCILE. 

Luvois. 

What! 
Did she not then, herself, the Comtesse de 

Nevers, 
Solve your riddle to-night with those soft lips 
of hers? 

Alfred. 

In our converse to-night we avoided the past. 
But the question I ask should be answered at 

last: 
By you, if you will ; if you will not, by her. 

Luvois. 
Indeed? but that question, milord, can it stir 
Such an interest in you, if your passion be o'er? 

Alfred. 
Yes. Esteem may remain, although love be 

no more. 
Lucile ask'd me, this night, to my wife (under- 
stand 
To my wife !) to present her. I did so. Her 

hand 
Has clasp'd that of Matilda. We gentlemen 

owe 
Respect to the name that is ours : and, if so, 
To the woman that bears it a twofold respect. 
Answer, Due de Luvois! Did Lucile then 

reject 
The proffer you made of your hand and your 

name? 
Or did you on her love then relinquish a claim 
Urged before? I ask bluntly this question, 

because 



LUCILE. 231 

My title to do so is clear by the laws 

That all gentlemen honor. Make only one 

sign 
That you know of Lncile de Nevers aught, in 

fine, 
Por which, if your own virgin sister were by. 
Prom Lucile you would shield her acquaint- 
ance, and I 
And Matilda leave Ems on the morrow. 

XXXI. 

The Duke 
Hesitated and paused. He could tell, by the 

look 
Of the man at his side, that he meant what he 

said. 
And there flashed in a moment these thoughts 

through his head : 
■** Leave Ems! would that suit me? no! that 

were again 
To mar all. And besides, if I do not explain. 
She herself will . . . et puis, ila raison: on est 
Gentilhomme avaiit tout!'' He replied there- 
fore, ''Nay! 
Madame de Nevers had rejected me. I, 
In those days, I was mad ; and in some mad 

reply 
I threatened the life of the rival to whom 
That rejection was due, I was led to presume. 
She fear'd for his life; and the letter which 

then 
She wrote me, I show'd you: we met: and 

again 
My hand was refused, and my love was denied, 



232 LUCILE. 

And the glance you mistook was the vizard 

which Pride 
Lends to Humiliation. 

"And so/' half in jest, 
He went on, '*in this best world, 't^s all for the 

best; 
You are wedded (bless'd Englishman!), wedded 

to one 
Whose past can be call'd into question by none: 
And I (fickle Frenchman !) can still laugh to 

feel 
I am lord of myself, and the Mode: and Lucile 
Still shines from her pedestal, frigid and fair 
As yon German moon o'er the linden-tops there ! 
A Dian in marble that scorns any troth 
With the little love-gods, whom I thank for us 

both, 
While she smiles from her lonely Olympus 

apart. 
That her arrows are marble as well as her 

heart. 
Stay at Ems, Alfred Vargrave!*' 

XXXII. 

The Duke, with a smile. 
Turned and entered the Rooms which, thus 

talking meanwhile. 
They had reach d. 

XXXIII. 

Alfred Vargrave strode on (overthrown 
Heart and mind!) in the darkness bewilder'd 

alone : 
*' And so,'' to himself did he mutter, *'and so 
'Twas to rescue my life, gentle spirit! and, oh, 



LUCILE. 23a 

f For this did I doubt her! . . ^ a light word — 
1; a look — 
The mistake of a moment ! . . , for this I for- 
sook — 
For this? Pardon, pardon, Lncile! O Lucile!'* 
Thought and memory rang, like a funeral peal. 
Weary changes on one dirge-like note through 

his brain, 
As he stray 'd down the darkness. 

xxxiy. 

Re-entering again 
The Casino, the Duke smiled. He turned to 

roulette. 
And sat down, and play'd fast, and lost largely, 

and yet 
He still smiled; night deepened: he played bis 

last number; 
Went home : and soon slept : and still smil'd in 

his slumber. 

XXXV. 

In his desolate Maxims, La Rochefoucauld 
wrote, 

*'In the grief or mischance of a friend you may 
note. 

There is something which always gives pleas- 
ure. " 

Alas! 

That reflections fell short of the truth as it was. 

La Rochefoucauld might have as truly set 
down — 

**No misfortune, but what some one turns to 
his own 

Advantage its mischief : no sorrow, but of it 

16 Lucile 



234 LUCILE. 

There ever is somebody ready to profit: 
No affliction without its stock-jobbers, who all 
Gamble, speculate, play on the rise and the fall 
Of another man's heart, and make traffic in 

it/' 
Burn thy book, O La Rochefoucauld ! 

Fool! one man's wit 
All men's selfishness how should it fathom? 

O sag-e, 
Dost thou satirize Nature? 

She laughs at thy page. 



CANTO II. 
I. 

COUSIN JOHN TO COUSIN ALFRED. 

*' London, i8 — 

**My dear Alfred, 
This contempt of existence, this listless disdain 
Of your own life, — its joys and its duties, — the 

deuce 
Take my wits if they find for it half an excuse ! 
I wish that some Frenchman would shoot off 

your leg, 
And compel you to stump through the world 

on a peg. 
I wish that you had, like myself (more's ftie 

pity!), 
To sit seven hours on this cursed committee. 
I wish that you knew, sir, how salt is the bread 
Of another — (what is it that Dante has said?) 



LUCILE. 235 

And the trouble of other men's staiirs. In a 

word, 
I wish fate had some real affliction conferr'd 
On your whimsical self, that, at least, you had 

cause 
For neglecting life's duties, and damning its 

laws! 
This pressure against all the purpose of life, 
This self-ebullition, and ferment, and strife. 
Betoken 'd I grant that it may be in truth, 
The richness and strength of the new wine of 

youth. 
But if, when the wine should have mellow 'd 

with time. 
Being bottled and binn'd, to a flavor sublime 
It retains the same acrid, incongruous taste, 
Why, the sooner to throw it away that we haste 
The better, I take it. And this vice of snarl- 

Self-love's little lapdog, the overfed darling 

Of a hypochondriacal fancy appears. 

To my thinking, at least, in a man of your 

years. 
At the midnoon of manhood with plenty to do, 
And every incentive for doing it, too, 
With the duties of life just sufficiently pressing 
For prayer, and of joys more than most men 

for blessing ; 
" With a pretty young wife, and a pretty full 

purse, — 
Like poltroonery, puerile truly, or worse ! 
I wish I could get you at least to agree 
To take life as it is, and consider with me 
If it be not all smiles, that it is not all sneers; 



2^ LUCILE. 

It admits honest laughter, and needs honest 

tears. 
Do yon think none have known but yourself all 

the pain 
Of hopes that retreat, and regrets that remain? 
And all the wide distance fate fixes, no doubt, 
'Twixt the life that's within, and the life that's 

without? 
What one of us finds the world just as he likes? 
Or gets what he wants when he wants it? Or 

strikes 
Without missing the thing that he strikes at 

the first? 
Or walks without stumbling? Or quenches his 

thirst 
At one draught? Bah! I tell you! I, bach- 
elor John, 
Have had griefs of my own. But what then? 

I push on 
All the faster perchance that I yet feel the pain 
Of my last fall, albeit I may stumble again. 
God means every man to be happy, be sure. 
He sends us no sorrows that have not some 

cure. 
Our duty down here is to do, not to know. 
Live as though life were earnest, and life will 

be so. 
Let each moment, like Time's last ambassador, 

come: 
It will wait to deliver its message ; and some 
Sort of answer it merits. It is not the deed 
A man does, but the way that he does it, should 

plead 
For the man's compensation in doing it. 



LUCILE. 237 

**Here, 

My next neighbor's a man with twelve thou- 
sand a year, 

Who deems that life has not a pastime more 
pleasant 

Than to follow a fox, or to slaughter a pheas- 
ant. 

Yet this fellow goes through a contested elec- 
tion, 

Lives in London, and sits, like the soul of de- 
jection, 

All the day through upon a committee, and 
late 

To the last, every night, through the dreary 
debate, 

As though he were getting each speaker by 
heart, 

Though amongst them he never presumes to 
take part 

One asks himself why, without murmur or 
question. 

He foregoes all his tastes, and destroys his 
digestion, 

For a labor of which the result seems so small. 

'The man is ambitious,' you say. Not at all. 

He has just sense enough to be fully aware 

That he never can hope to be Premier, or share 

The renown of a Tully ; — or even to hold 

A subordinate office. He is not so bold 

As to fancy the House for ten minutes would 
bear 

With patience his modest opinions to hear. 

*But he wants something!' 

**What! with twelve thousand a year? 



238 LUCILE. 

What could Government give him would be 

half so dear 
To his heart as a walk with a dog and a gun 
Through his own pheasant woods, or a capital 

run? 
* No ; but vanity fills out the emptiest brain ; 
The man would be more than his neighbor, *tis 

plain ; 
And the drudgery drearily gone through in 

town 
Is more than repaid by provincial renown. 
Enough if some Marchioness, lively and loose, 
Shall have eyed him with passing complaisance ; 

the goose. 
If the Fashion to him open one of its doors. 
As proud as a sultan, returns to his boors. * 
Wrong again ! if you think so. 

**For, prime; my friend 
Is the head of a family known from one end 
Of his shire to the other, as the oldest; and 

therefore 
He despises fine lords and fine ladies. He care 

for 
A peerage? no truly! Secondo; he rarely 
Or never goes out: dines at Bellamy's sparely,, 
And abhors what you call the gav world. 

^'^Then, I ask. 
What inspires, and consoles, such a self-im- 
posed task 
As the life of this man, — but the sense of its 

duty? 
And I swear that the eyes of the haughtiest 

beauty 
Have never inspired in my soul that intense 



LUCILE. 239 

Reverential, and loving, and absolute sense 
Of heart-felt admiration I feel for this man, 
As I see him beside me ; — there, wearing the 

wan 
London daylight away, on his humdrum com- 
mittee; 
So unconscious of all that awakens my pity. 
And wonder — and worship, I might say. 

"To me 
There seems something nobler than genius to 

be 
In that dull patient labor no genius relieves. 
That absence of all joy which yet never grieves; 
The humility of it ! the grandeur withal ! 
The sublimity of it! And yet should you call 
The man's own very slow apprehension to this. 
He would ask, with a stare, what sublimity is! 
His work is the duty to which he was born ; 
He accepts it, without ostentation or scorn : 
And this man is no uncommon type (I thank 

Heaven!) 
Of this land's common men. In all other lands, 

even 
The type's self is wanting. Perchance, 'tis the 

reason 
That Government oscillates ever 'twixt treason 
And tyranny elsewhere. 

''I wander away 
Too far, though, from what I was wishing to 

say. 
You, for instance, read Plato. You know that 

the soul 
Is immortal; and put this in rhyme, on the 

whole. 



240 LUCILE. 

Very well, with sublime illustration. Man's 
heart 

Is a mystery, doubtless. You trace it in art : — 

The Greek Psyche, — that's beauty, — the per- 
fect ideal. 

But then comes the imperfect, perfectible real, 

With its pain'd aspiration and strife. In those 
pale 

Ill-drawn virgins of Giotto you see it prevail. 

You have studied all this. Then, the universe, 
too, 

Is not a mere house to be lived in, for you. 

Geology opens the mind. So you know 

Something also of strata and fossils; these 
show 

The bases of cosmical structure : some mention 

Of the nebulous theory demands your atten- 
tion; 

And so on. 

**In short, it is clear the interior 

Of your brain, my dear Alfred, is vastly supe- 
rior 

In fiber, and fullness, and function, and fire. 

To that of my poor parliamentary squire ; 

But your life leaves upon me (forgive me this 
heat 

Due to friendship) the sense of a thing incom- 
plete. 

You fly high. But what is it, in truth, you 
fly at? 

My mind is not satisfied quite as to that. 

An old illustration's as good as a new. 

Provided the old illustration be true. 



LUCILE. 241 

We are children. Mere kites are the fancies 

we fly, 
Though we marvel to see them ascending so 

high; 
Things slight in themselves, — long-tail'd toys, 

and no more : 
What is it that makes the kite steadily soar 
Through the realms where the cloud and the 

whirlwind have birth 
But the tie that attaches the kite to the earth? 
I remember the lessons of childhood, you 

see, 
And the hornbook I learned on my mother's 

knee. 
In truth, I suspect little else do we learn 
From this great book of life, which so shrewdly 

we turn. 
Saving how to apply, with a good or bad grace, 
What we learn'dinthe hornbook of childhood. 

"Your case 
Is exactly in point. 

**Fly your kite, if you please, 
Out of sight: let it go where it will on the 

breeze ; 
But cut not the one thread by which it is bound, 
Be it never so high, to the poor human ground. 
No man is the absolute lord of his life. 
You, my friend, have a home, and a sweet and 

dear wife. 
If I often have sigh'd by my own silent Are, 
With the sense of a sometimes recurring desire 
For a voice sweet and low, or a face fond and 

fair. 
Some dull winter evening to solace and share 

16 



242 LUCILE. 

With the love which the world its good children 

allows 
To shake hands with, — in short, a legitimate 

spouse, 
This thought has consoled me: 'at least I have 

given 
For my own good behavior no hostage to 

heaven. * 
You have, though. Forget it not! faith, if 

you do, 
I would rather break stones on a road than be 

you. 
If any man willfully injured, or led 
That little girl wrong, I w^ould sit on his 

head 
Even though you yourself were the sinner! 

*' And this 
Leads me back (do not take ii, dear cousin, 

amiss!) 
To the matter I meant to have mentioned, at 

once. 
But these thoughts put it out of my head for 

the nonce. 
Of all the preposterous humbugs and shams, 
Of all the old wolves ever taken for lambs. 
The wolves best received by the flocks he 

devours 
Is that uncle-in-law, my dear Alfred, of yours. 
At least, this has long been my settled con- 
viction, 
And I almost would venture at once the pre- 
diction 
That before very long — but no matter! I 

trust 



LUCILE. 245 

For his sake and our own ; that I may be un- 
just. 
But Heaven forgive me, if cautious I am on 
The score of such men as, with both God and 

Mammon, 
Seem so shrewdly familiar. 

** Neglect not this warning. 
There were rumors afloat in the city this 

morning 
Which I scarce like the sound of. Who knows.^ 

would he fleece 
At a pinch, the old hypocrite, even his own 

niece? 
For the sake of Matilda I cannot importune 
Your attention too early. If all your wife's 

fortune 
Is yet in the hands of that specious old sinner, 
Who would dice with the devil, and yet rise up 

winner, 
I say, lose no time ! get it out of the grab 
Of her trustee and uncle, Sir Ridley MacNab. 
I trust those deposits, at least, are drawn 

out. 
And safe at this moment from danger or doubt. 
A wink is as good as a nod to the wise 
Verbum sap, I admit nothing yet justifies 
My mistrust; but I have in my own mind a 

notion 
That old Ridley's white waistcoat, and airs of 

devotion, 
Have long been the only ostensible capital 
On which he does business. If so, time must 

sap it all 
Sooner or later. Look sharp. Do not wait, 



244 tUClLE. 

Draw at once. In a fortnight it may be too 
late. 

I admit I know nothing. I can but suspect; 

I give you my notions. Form yours and reflect. 

My love to Matilda. Her mother looks well. 

I saw her last week. I have nothing to tell 

Worth your hearing. We think that the Gov- 
ernment here 

Will not last our next session. Fitz Funk is a 
peer, 

You will see by the Times. There are symp- 
toms which show 

That the ministers now are preparing to go 

And finish their feasts of the loaves and the 
fishes. 

It is evident they are clearing the dishes, 

And cramming their pockets with bonbons. 
Your news 

W^ill be always acceptable. Vere, of the 
Blues, 

Has bolted with Lady Selina. And so, 

You have met with that hot-headed French- 
man? I know 

That the man is a sad mauvais sujet Take 
care 

Of Matilda, I wish I could join you both there ; 

But, before I am free, you are sure to be 
gone. 

Good-by, my dear fellow. Yours anxiously, 

John.'' 

11. 

This is just the advice I myself would have 
given 



LUCILE. 245 

To Lord Alfred, had I been his cousin which 

Heaven 
Be praised, I am not. But it reached him in- 
deed 
In an unlucky hour, and received little heed. 
A half-languid glance was the most that he 

lent at 
That time to these homilies. Pntnum demefitai 
Quern Deus vulf perdere. Alfred in fact 
Was behaving just then in a way to distract 
Job's self had Job known him. The more you'd 

have thought 
The Duke's court to Matilda his eye would 

have caught, 
The more did his aspect grow listless to hers. 
And the more did it beam to Lucile de Nevers. 
And Matilda, the less she found love in the 

look 
Of her husband, the less did she shrink from 

the Duke 
With each day that pass'd o'er them, they 

each, heart from heart. 
Woke to feel themselves further and further 

apart. 
More and more of his time Alfred pass'd at the 

table ; 
Played high ; and lost more than to lose he 

was able. 
He grew feverish, querulous, absent, perverse — 
And here I must mention, what made matters 

worse. 
That Lucile and the Duke at the selfsame hotel 
With the Vargraves resided. It needs not to 

tell 



246 LUCILE. 

That they all saw too much of each other. 

The weather 
Was so fine that it brought them each day all 

together 
In the garden, to listen, of course, to the 

band 
The house was a sort of phalanstery ; and 
Lucile and Matilda were pleased to discover 
A mutual passion for music. Moreover 
The Duke was an excellent tenor; could sing 
''Ange si pure'' in a way to bring down on the 

wing 
All the angels St. Cicely play' d to. My lord 
Would also at times, when he was not too 

bored. 
Play Beethoven, and Wagner's new music, not 

ill; 
With some little things of his own, showing 

skill 
For which reason, as for some others too, 
Their rooms were a pleasant enough rendez- 
vous, 
Did Lucile, then, encourage (the heartless 

coquette !) 
All the mischief she could not but mark? 

Patience yet. 

III. 

In that garden, an arbor, withdrawn from the 

sun, 
By laburnum and lilac with blooms overrun, 
Form'd a vault of cool verdure, which made, 

when the heat 



LUCILE. 247 

Of the noontide hung heavy, a gracious retreat. 
And here, with some friends of their own little 

world, 
In the warm afternoons, till the shadows un- 

currd 
From the feet of the lindens, and crept through 

the grass, 
Their blue hours would this gay little colony 

pass. 
The men loved to smoke, and the women to 

bring. 
Undeterred by tobacco, their work there, and 

sing 
Or converse, till the dew fell, and homeward 

the bee 
Floated, heavy with honey. Towards eve 

there was tea 
(A luxury due to Matilda,) and ice. 
Fruit, and coffee. 

Such an evening it was, while Matilda presided 
O'er the rustic arrangements thus daily pro- 
vided, 
With the Duke, and a small German Prince 

with a thick head, 
And an old Russian Countess both witty and 

wicked, 
And two Austrian Colonels, — that Alfred, who 

yet 
Was lounging alone with his last cigarette, 
Saw Lucile de Nevers by herself pacing slow 
'Neath the shade of the cool linden trees to and 

fro, 
And joining her, cried, *' Thank the good stars, 

we meet ! * 



248 LUCILE. 

I have so much to say to yon ! ' ' 

**Yes> ..." with her sweet 
Serene voice, she replied to him . . . **Yes? 

and I too 
Was wishing, indeed, to say somewhat to yoti. " 
She was paler just then than her wont was. 

The sound 
Of her voice had within it a sadness profound. 
**You are ill!'* he exclaim 'd. 

*'No!" she hurriedly said, 
**No, no!" 

**You alarm me!" 

She droop 'd down her head. 
**If your thoughts have of late sought, or cared, 

to divine 
The purpose of what has been passing in mine, 
My farewell can scarcely alarm you. ' ' 

Alfred. 
Your farewell I you go ! 

LUCILE. 

Yes, Lord Alfred. 
Alfred. 
The cause of this sudden unkindness. 



Lucile ! 



Reveal 



Lucile. 

Unkind? 



Alfred. 
Yes! what else is this parting? 



LUCILE. 249 

LUCILE. 

No, no! are you blind? 
Look into your own heart and home. Can you 

see 
No reason for this, save unkindness in me? 
Look into the eyes of your wife — those true 

eyes 
Too pure and too honest in aught to disguise 
The sweet soul shining through them. 

Alfred. 

Lucile ! (first and last 
Be the word, if you will !) let me speak of the 

past. 
I know now, alas! though I know it too late. 
What pass'd at that meeting which settled my 

fate, 
Nay, nay, interrupt me not yet ! let it be ! 
I but say what is due to yourself — due to me 
And must say it. 

He rush'd incoherently on 
Describing how, lately, the truth he had known. 
To explain how, and whence, he had wrong'd 

her before 
All the complicate coil wound about him of 

yore, 
All the hopes that had flown with the faith that 

was fled, 
''And then, O Lucile, what was left me," he 

said, 
''When my life was defrauded of you, but to 

take 
That life, as 'twas left, and endeavor to make 



250 LUCILE. 

Unobserved by another, the void which re- 
main 'd 
Unconcern'd to myself? If I have not attained, 
I have striven. One word of unkindness has 

never 
Pass'd my lips to Matilda. Her least wish has 

ever 
Received my submission. And if, of a truth, 
I have faird to renew what I felt in my youth, 
I at least have been loyal to what I do feel, 
Respect, duty, honor, affection. Lucile, 
I speak not of love, now, nor love's long re- 
gret! 
I would not offend you, nor dare I forget 
The ties that are round me. But may there 

not be 
A friendship yet hallowed between you and me? 
May we not be yet friends — friends the 
dearest?'* 

*'Alas!" 
She replied, *'for one moment, perchance, did 

it pass 
Through my own heart, that dream which for- 
ever hath brought 
To those who indulge it in innocent thought 
So fatal and evil a waking ! But no. 
For in lives such as ours are, the Dream-tree 

would grow 
On the borders of Hades: beyond it, what 

lies? 
The wheel of Ixion, alas! and the cries 
Of the lost and tormented. Departed, for us, 
Are the days when with innocence we could 
discuss 



LUCILE. 251 

Dreams like these. Fled, indeed, are the 

dreams of my life! 
Oh trust me, the best friend you have is your 

wife. 
And I — in that pure child^s pure virtue, I bow 
To the beauty of virtue. I felt on my brow 
Not one blush when I first took her hand. 

With no blush 
Shall I clasp it to-night, when I leave you. 

**Hush! hush 
I would say that I wished to have said when 

you came. 
Do not think that years leave us and find us 

the same! 
The woman you knew long ago, long ago, 
Is no more. You yourself have within you, I 

know. 
The germ of a joy in the years yet to be. 
Whereby the past years will bear fruit. As 

for me, 
I go my own way, — onward, upward ! 

'*0 yet, 
Let me thank you for that which ennobled 

regret, 
When it came, as it beautified hope ere it 

fled,— 
The love I once felt for you. True, it is dead. 
But it is not corrupted. I too have at last 
Lived to learn that love is not — (such love as is 

past. 
Such love as youth dreams of at least) — the 

sole part 
Of life, which is able to fill up the heart; 
Even that of a woman. 



252 LUCILE. 

'^Between you and me 
Heaven fixes a gulf, over which you must see 
That our guardian angels can bear us no more. 
We each of us stand on an opposite shore, 
Trust a woman's opinion for once. Women 

learn, 
By an instinct men never attain, to discern 
Each other's true natures. Matilda is fair, 
Matilda is young — see her now, sitting there ! — 
How tenderly fashion'd — (oh, is she not? say,) 
To love and be loved!" 

IV. 

He turn'd sharply away 
'^Matilda is young, and Matilda is fair; 
Of all that you tell me pray deem me aware ; 
But Matilda's a statue, Matilda's a child; Ma- 
tilda loves not — " 

Lucile quietly smiled 
As she answer'd him: — ''Yesterday, all that 

you say 
Might be true ; it is false, wholly false, though, 

to-day." 
**How? — what mean you?" 

*'I mean that to-day," she replied, 
''The statue with life has become vivified; 
I mean that the child to a woman has grown ; 
And that woman is jealous." 

''What! she?" with a tone 
Of ironical wonder, he answer'd — "what she! 
She jealous! — Matilda! — of whom, pray? — not 

me!" 
*'My lord, you deceive yourself; no one but 
you 



LUCILE. 253 

Is she jealous of. Trust me. And thank 
heaven, too, 

That so lately this passion within her hath 
grown. 

For who shall declare, if for months she had 
known 

What for days she has known all too keenly, 
I fear, 

That knowledge perchance might have cost 
you more dear?" 

"Explain! explain, madam!" he cried in sur- 
prise ; 

And terror and anger enkindled his eyes. 

* * How blind are you men ! ' ' she replied. * ' Can 
you doubt 

That a woman, young, fair, and neglected — " 

''Speak out!" 

He gasp'd with emotion. ''Lucile! you mean 
— what? 

Do you doubt her fidelity?" 

''Certainly not. 

Listen to me, my friend. What I wish to 
explain 

Is so hard to shape forth. I could almost 
refrain 

From touching a subject so fragile. However, 

Bear with me awhile, if I frankly endeavor 

To invade for one moment your innermost life. 

Your honor, Lord Alfred, and that of your 
wife. 

Are dear to me, — most dear! And I am con- 
vinced 

That you rashly are risking that honor." 

He winced, 



254 LUCILE. 

And turned pale, as she spoke, 

She had aim'd at his heart. 
And she $aw, by his sudden and terrified start 
That her aim had not miss'd, 

**Stay, Lucile!" he exclaimed, 
*'What in truth do you mean by these words^ 

vaguely framed 
To alarm me? Matilda? — my wife? — do you 

know?'^— 
**I know that your wife is as spotless as snow. 
But I know not how far your continued neglect 
Her nature, as well as her heart, might affect. 
Till at last, by degrees, that serene atmosphere 
Of her unconscious purity, faint and yet clear. 
Like the indistinct golden and vaporous fleece 
Which surrounded and hid the celestials in 

Greece 
From the glances of men, would disperse and 

depart 
At the sighs of a sick and delirious heart, — 
For jealousy is to a woman, be sure, 
A disease heard too oft by a criminal cure; 
And the heart left too long to its ravage in 

time 
May find weakness in virtue, reprisal in crime. '" 



** Such thoughts could have never,'* he falter'd> 

**Iknow, 
Reach 'd the heart of Matilda." 

*' Matilda? oh, not 
But reflect! when such thoughts do not come 

of themselves 
Tq the heart of a woman neglected, like elves 



LUCILE. 255 

That seek lonely places, — there rarely is want- 
ing 

Some voice at her side, with an evil enchanting 

To conjure them to her. " 

**0 lady, beware! 

At this moment, around me I search every- 
where 

For a clew to your words' ' — 

*'You mistake them,"' she said, 

Half- fearing, indeed, the effect they had made, 

*'I was putting a mere hypothetical case. " 

With a long look of trouble he gazed in her 
face. 

*'Woetohim, . . " he exclaim 'd . . . **woe 
to him that shall feel 

Such a hope ! for I swear if he did but reveal 

One glimpse, — it should be the last hope of his 
life!" 

The clench 'd hand and bent eyebrow beto- 
ken 'd the strife 

She had roused in his heart. 

'*You forget," she began, 

*'That you menace yourself. You yourself are 
the man 

That is guilty. Alas! must it ever be so? 

Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go, 

And fight our own shadows forever. O think ! 

The trial from which you, the stronger ones, 
shrink. 

You ask woman, the weaker one, still to en- 
dure; 

You bid her be true to the laws you abjure ; 

To abide by the ties you yourselves rend asun- 
der. 



256 LUCILE. 

With the force that has fail'd you; and that, 
too, when under 

The assumption of right which to her you re- 
fuse, 

The immunity claim'd for yourselves you abuse 

Where the contract exists, it involves obliga- 
tion 

To both husband and wife, in an equal rela- 
tion. 

You unloose, in asserting your own liberty, 

A knot, which, unloosed, leaves another as 
free. 

Then, O Alfred! be juster at heart: and thank 
Heaven 

That Heaven to your wife such a nature has 
given 

That you have not wherewith to reproach her, 
albeit 

You have cause to reproach your own self, 
could you see it!" 

VI. 

In the silence that followed the last word she 

said. 
In the heave of his chest, and the droop of his 

head. 
Poor Lucile mark'd her words had sufficed to 

impart 
A new germ of motion and life to that heart 
Of which he himself had so recently spoken 
As dead to emotion — exhausted or broken ! 
New fears would awaken new hopes in his life. 
In the husband indifferent no more to the wife 



LUCILE. 257 

She already, as she had foreseen, could dis- 
cover 

That Matilda had gained, at her hands a new 
lover. 

So after some moments of silence, whose spell 

They both felt, she extended her hand to 
him . . . 

VII. 

**Well?" 

VIII. 

''Lucile,'' he replied, as that soft quiet hand 
In his own he clasp'd warmly, **I both under- 
stand 
And obey you." 

** Thank Heaven!'* she murmured, 

*'0 yet, 
One word, I beseech you! I cannot forget,'* 
He exclaim *d, **we are parting for life. You 

have shown 
My pathway to me: but say, what is your 

own?" 
The calmness with which until then she had 

spoken 
In a moment seem'd strangely and suddenly 

broken. 
She turn'd from him nervously, hurriedly. 

*'Nay, 
I know not," she murmur *d. *'I follow the 

way 
Heaven leads me; I cannot foresee to what 

end. 
I know only that far, far away it must tend 

17 Lucile 



258 LUCILE. 

From all places in which we have met, or might 

mieet. 
Far away ! — onward — upward ! ' * 

A smile strange and sweet 
As the incense that rises from some sacred cup 
.And mixes with music, stole forth, and 

breathed up 
Her whole face, with those words. 

"Wheresoever it be, 
May all gentlest angels attend you!" sighed he, 
"And bear my heart's blessing wherever you 

are!'* 
And her hand, with emotion, he kiss'd. 

IX, 

Prom afar 
That kiss was, alas! by Matilda beheld 
With far other emotions: her young bosom 

swell' d 
And her young cheek with anger was crim- 
son 'd. 

The Duke 
Adroitly attracted towards it her look 
By a faint but significant smile. 



Much ill-construed, 
Renown 'd Bishop Berkley has fully, for one, 

strew'd 
"With arguments, page upon page, to teach 

folks 
That the world they inhabit is only a hoax. 
But it surely is hard, since we can't do without 

them, 



LUCILE. 25^ 

That our senses should make us so oft wish to 
doubt them ! 



CANTO III. 



When first the red savage call'd Man strode, a 
king, 

Through the wilds of creation — the very first 
thing 

That his naked intelligence taught him to feel 

Was the shame of himself; and the wish to 
conceal 

Was the first step in art. From the apron 
which Eve 

In Eden sat down out of fig-leaves to weave 

To the furbelow 'd flounce and the broad crin- 
oline 

Of my lady — you all know, of course, whom I 
mean — 

This art of concealment has greatly increas'd. 

A whole world lies cryptic in each human 
breast ; 

And that drama of passions as old as the hills, 

Which the moral of all men in each man ful- 
fills 

Is only reveard now and then to our eyes 

In the newspaper- files and the courts of assize. 

II. 

In the group seen go lately in sunlight assem- 
bled. 



260 LUCILE. 

'Mid those walks over which the laburnum- 

bongh trembled, 
And the deep-bosom 'd lilac, emparadising 
The haunts where the blackbird and thrush flit 

and sing, 
The keenest eye could but have seen, and seen 

only, 
A circle of friends, minded not to leave lonely 
The bird on the bough, or the bee on the blos- 
som; 
Conversing at ease in the garden's green bosom 
Like those who, when Florence was yet in her 

glories, 
Cheated death and kilVd time with Boccaccian 

stories. 
But at length the long twilight more deeply 

grew shaded. 
And the fair night the rosy horizon invaded. 
And the bee in the blossom, the bird on the 

bough. 
Through the shadowy garden were slumbering 

now, 
The trees only, o'er every unvisited walk, 
Began on a sudden to whisper and talk. 
And as each little sprightly and garrulous leaf 
Woke up with an evident sense of relief, 
They all seem' d to be saying . . . ''Once more 

we're alone, 
And, thank Heaven, those tiresome people are 

gone!" 

III. 

Through the deep blue concave of the luminous 
air. 



LUCILE. 261 

Large, loving, and languid, the stars here and 
there, 

Like the eyes of shy, passionate women, look'd 
down 

O'er the dim world whose sole tender light 
was their own, 

When Matilda, alone, from her chamber de- 
scended, 

And enter' d the garden, unseen, unattended. 

Her forehead was aching and parch 'd, and her 
breast 

By a vague inexpressible sadness oppressed: 

A sadness which led her, she scarcely knew 
how. 

And she scarcely knew why . . . (save, in- 
deed, that just now 

The house, out of which with a gasp she had 
fled 

Half-stifled, seem'd ready to sink on her 
head) . . . 

Out into the night air, the silence, the bright 

Boundless starlight, the cool isolation of night! 

Her husband that day had look'd once in her 
face. 

And press'd both her hands in a silent embrace. 

And reproachfully noticed her recent dejection 

With a smile of kind wonder and tacit affec- 
tion. 

He, of late so indifferent and listless! ... at 
last 

Was he startled and awed by the change which 
had pass'd 

O'er the once radiant face of his young wife? 
Whence came 



262 LUCILE. 

That long look of solicitous fondness? . . . the 

same 
Look and language of quiet affection — the look 
And the language, alas ! which so often she 

took 
For pure love in the simple repose of its pur* 

ity- 
Her own heart thus luU'd to a fatal security ! 
Ha! would he deceive her again by this kind- 
ness? 
Had she been, then, O fool! in her innocent 

blindness 
The sport of transparent illusion? ah folly! 
And that feeling, so tranquil, so happy, so holy, 
She had taken, till then, in the heart, not alone 
Of her husband, but also, indeed, in her own, 
For true love, nothing else, after all, did it 

prove 
But a friendship profanely familiar? 

** And love? . . . 
What was love, then? . . . not calm, not secure 

— scarcely kind 
But in one, all intensest emotions combined : 
Life and death : pain and rapture. * ' 

Thus wandering astray. 
Led by do|ibt, through the darkness she wan- 
der 'd away. 
All silently crossing, recrossing the night. 
With faint, meteoric, miraculous light, 
The swift shooting stars through the infinite 

burned 
And into the infinite ever return 'd. 
And silently o'er the obscure and unknown 
In the heart of Matilda there darted and shone 



LUCILE. 263 

Thoughts, enkindling like meteors the deeps, 

to expire, 
Leaving traces behind them of tremulous fire. 

IV. 

She entered that arbor of lilacs, in which 

The dark air with odors hung heavy and rich. 

Like a soul that grows faint with desire. 

'Twas the place 
In which she so lately had sat, face to face 
With her husband, — and her, the pale stranger 

detested. 
Whose presence her heart like a plague had 

infested. 
The whole spot with evil remembrance was 

haunted. 
Through the darkness there rose on the heart 

which it daunted 
Each dreary detail of that desolate day. 
So full, and yet so incomplete. Far away 
The acacias were muttering, like mischievous 

elves 
The whole story over again to themselves. 
Each word, — and each word was a wound! 

By degrees 
Her memory mingled its voice with the trees. 



Like the whisper Eve heard, when she paused 

by the root 
Of the sad tree of knowledge, and gazed on its 

fruit, 
To the heart of Matilda the trees seem*d to hiss 



264 LUCILE. 

Wild instructions, revealing man's last right, 

which is 
The right of reprisals. 

An image uncertain, 
And vague, dimly shaped itself forth on the 

curtain 
Of the darkness around her. It came, and it 

went; 
Through her senses a faint sense of peril it sent : 
It pass'd and repass'd her; it went and it came 
Forever returning ; forever the same ; 
And forever more clearly defined ; till her eyes 
In that outline obscure could at last recognize 
The man to whose image the more and the more 
That her heart, now aroused from its calm 

sleep of yore, 
From her husband detach 'd itself slowly, with 

pain, 
Her thoughts had returned and returned to, 

again. 
As though by some secret indefinite law, — 
The vigilant Frenchman — Eugene de Luvois! 

VI. 

A light sound behind her. She trembled. By 

some 
Night-witchcraft her vision a face had "become. 
On a sudden she felt, without turning to view, 
That a man was approaching behind her. She 

knew 
By the fluttering pulse which she could not 

restrain. 
And the quick-beating heart, that this man 

was Eugene. 



LUCILE. 265 

Her first instinct was flight; but she felt her 

slight foot 
As heavy as though to the soil it had root. 
And the Duke's voice retained her, like fear 

in a dream, 

VII. 

**Ah, lady! in life there are meetings which 

seem 
Like a fate. Dare I think like a sympathy too? 
Yet what else can I bless for this vision of you? 
Alone with my thoughts, on this starlighted 

lawn. 
By an instinct resistless, I felt myself drawn 
To revisit the memories left in that place 
Where so lately this evening I look*d in your 

face. 
And I find, — you, yourself — my own dream! 

**Can there be 
In this world one thought common to you and 

to me? 
If so, . . . I, who deem'd but a moment ago 
My heart uncompanion*d, save only by woe. 
Should indeed be more bless'd than I dare to 

believe — 
— Ah, but one word, but one from your lips to 

receive*' . . . 
Interrupting him quickly, she murmur 'd, **I 

sought, 
Here, a moment of solitude, silence, and 

thought. 
Which I needed.'' . . . 

** Lives solitude only for one? 

18 Lucile 



266 LUCILE. i 

Must its charm by my presence so soon be 

undone? 
Ah, cannot two share it? What needs it for 

this?— ^ 

The same thought m both hearts, — be it sorrow 

or bliss; 
If my heart be the reflex of yours, lady — you, 
Are you not yet alone, — even though we be 

two?'* 
*'For that,*' . . . said Matilda, . . ** needs 

were, you should read 
What I have in my heart** . . . 

*' Think you, lady, indeed, 
You are yet of that age when a woman conceals 
In her heart so completely whatever she feels 
From the heart of the man whom it interests 

to know 
And find out what that feeling may be? Ah, 

not so. 
Lady Alfred! Forgive me that in it I look, 
But I read in your heart as I read in a book. ** 

*'Well, Duke! and what read you within it? 

unless 
It be, of a truth, a profound weariness, 
And some sadness?** 

''No doubt. To all facts there are laws. 
The effect has its cause, and I mount to the 

cause.*' 

VIII. 

Matilda shrank back ; for she suddenly found 
That a finger was press'd on the yet bleeding 
wound 



LUCILE. 267 

She, herself, had but that day perceived in her 

breast. 
*'You are sad,'* . . . said the Duke (and that 

finger yet press 'd 
With a cruel persistence the wound it made 

bleed)— 
You are sad. Lady Alfred, because the first 

need 
Of a young and a beautiful woman is to be 
Beloved, and to love. You are sad ; for you see 
That you are not beloved, as you deem'd that 

you were: 
You are sad : for that knowledge hath left you 

aware 
That you have not yet loved, though you 

thought that you had, 
Yes, yes ! . . . you are sad — because knowledge 

is sad!** 
He could not have read more profoundly her 

heart. 
'*What gave you,'* she cried, with a terrified 

start 
**Such strange power!** . . . 

'*To read in your thoughts?'* he exclaim*d, 
**0 lady, — a love, deep, profound — be it blamed 
Or rejected, — a love, true, intense — such, at 

least, 
As you, and you only, could wake in my 

breast!** 
**Hush, hush! ... I beseech you . . . for 

pity!** she gasp*d. 
Snatching hurriedly from him the hand he had 

clasp *d 
In her effort instinctive to fly from the spot. 



268 LUCILE. 

**For pity?" ... he echoed, *'for pity! and 

what 
Is the pity you owe him? his pity for you! 
He, the lord of a life, fresh as new-fallen dew ! 
The guardian and guide of a woman, young, 

fair. 
And matchless! (whose happiness did he not 

swear 
To cherish through life?) he neglects her — for 

whom? 
For a fairer than she? No! the rose in the 

bloom 
Of that beauty which, even when hidd'n, can 

prevail 
To keep sleepless with song the aroused night- 
ingale, 
Is not fairer; for even in the pure world of 

flowers 
Her symbol is not, and this pure world of 

ours 
Has no second Matilda! For whom? Let 

that pass ! 
'Tis not I, *tis not you, that can name her, 

alas! 
And I dare not question or judge her. But 

why, 
Why cherish the cause of your own misery? 
Why think of one, lady, who thinks not of you? 
Why be bound by a chain which himself he 

breaks through? 
And why, since you have but to stretch forth 

your hand. 
The love which you need and deserve to com- 
mand. 



LUCILE. 269 

Why shrink ? Why repel it ? " 

''Ohush, sir! O hush!'* 
Cried Matilda, as though her whole heart were 

one blush. 
*' Cease, cease, I conjure you, to trouble my 

life! 
Is not Alfred your friend? and am I not his 

wife?" 

IX. 

*'And have I not, lady," he answered . . . 

** respected 
His rights as a friend till himself he neglected 
Your rights as a wife? Do you think 'tis alone 
For three days I have loved you? My love 

may have grown, 
I admit, day by day, since I first felt your eyes, ' 
In watching their tears, and in sounding your 

sighs. 
But, O lady ! I loved you before I believed 
That your eyes ever wept, or your heart ever 

grieved. 
Then I deem'd you were happy— I deem'd you 

possessed 
All the love you deserved, — and I hid in my 

breast 
My own love, till this hour — when I could not 

but feel 
Your grief gave me the right my own grief to 

reveal ! 
I knew, years ago, of the singular power 
Which Lucile o'er your husband possess'd. 

Till the hour 
In which he reveal'd it himself, did I, — say! — 



270 LUCILE. 

By a word or a look, such a secret betray? 
No! no! do me justice. I never have spoken 
Of this poor heart of mine, till all ties he had 

broken 
Which bound your heart to him. And now — 

now, that this love 
For another hath left your own heart free to 

rove, 
What is it, — even now, — that I kneel to im- 
plore you? 
Only this. Lady Alfred ! ... to let me adore 

you 
Unblamed: to have confidence in me: to 

spend 
On me not one thought, save to think me your 

friend. 
Let me speak to you, — ah, let me speak to you 

still! 
Hush to silence my words in your heart, if you 

will. 
I ask no response: I ask only your leave 
To live yet in your life, and to grieve when you 

grieve!'* 

X. 

**Leave me, leave me!*' . . . she gasp'd, with 

a voice thick and low 
From emotion. **For pity's sake, Duke, let me 

go! 
I feel that to blame we should both of us be. 
Did I linger. ' ' 

**To blame? yes, no doubt!". . . answer'd 

he, 



LUCILE. 271 

*'If the love of your husband, in bringing you 

peace, 
Had forbidden you hope. But he signs your 

release 
By the hand of another. One moment! but 

one! 
Who knows when, alas! I may see you alone 
As to-night I have seen you? or when we may 

meet 
As to-night we have met? when, entranced at 

your feet, 
As in this blessed hour, I may ever avow 
The thoughts which are pining for utterance 

now?'* 
"Duke! Duke!". . . sheexclaim'd . . . '*for 

heaven's sake let me go! 
It is late. In the house they will miss me, I 

know. 
We must not be seen here together. The night 
Is advancing. I feel overwhelmed with affright ! 
It is time to return to my lord. " 

'*To your lord?" 
He repeated, with lingering reproach on the 

word. 
"To your lord? do you think he awaits you 

in truth? 
Is he anxiously missing your presence, for- 
sooth? 
Return to j^our lord! , . , his restraint to 

renew? 
And hinder the glances which are not for you? 
No, no ! ... at this moment his looks seek the 

face 
Of another ! another is there in your place ! 



272 LUCILE. 

Another consoles him ! another receives 
The soft speech which from silence your 
absence relieves!" 

XI. 

**You mistake, sir!'' . . . responded a voice, 

calm, severe. 
And sad. . . ."You mistake, sir! that other is 

here.*' 
Eugene and Matilda both started. 

**Lucile!" 
With a half-stifled scream, as she felt herself 

reel 
From the place where she stood, cried Matilda. 

"Ho, oh! 
What! eavesdropping, madam?'*. . . the Duke 

cried . . ."And so 
You were listening?" 

"Say: rather," she said, "that I heard, 
Without wishing to hear it, that infamous 

word, — 
Heard — and therefore reply." 

"Belle Comtesse," said the Duke, 
With concentrated wrath in the savage rebuke. 
Which betray'd that he felt himself baffled . . . 

"you know 
That your place is not here." 

"Duke," she answered him slow, 
"My place is where my duty is clear: 
And therefore my place, at this moment, is 

here. 
O lady, this morning my place was beside 
Your husband because (as she said this she 

sigh'd) 



LUCILE. 273 

I felt that from folly fast growing to crime — 
The crime of self-blindness — Heaven yet 

spared me time^ 
To save for the love of an innocent wife 
All that such love deserved in the heart and 

the life 
Of the man to whose heart and whose life you 

alone 
Can with safety confide the pure trust of your 

own. * ' 
She turned to Matilda, and lightly laid on her 
Her soft quiet hand . . . 

** 'Tis, O lady, the honor 
Which that man has confided to you, that, in 

spite 
Of his friend, I now trust I may yet save 

to-night — 
Save for both of you * for yours I revere ; 
Due de Luvois, what say you? — my place is not 

here?" 

XII. 

And, so saying, the hand of Matilda she 

caught, 
Wound one arm round her waist unresisted 

and sought 
Gently, softly, to draw her away from the spot. 
The Duke stood confounded, and followed 

them not 
But not yet the house had they reach'd when 

Lucile 
Her tender and delicate burden could feel 
Sink and falter beside her. Oh, then she 

knelt down, 

18 



274 LU€ILE. 

Flung her arms round Matilda, and pressed to 

her own 
The poor bosom beating against her. 

The moon, 
Bright, breathless, and buoyant, and brimful 

of June, 
Floated up from the hillside, sloped over the 

vale, 
And poised himself loose in mid-heaven, with 

one pale. 
Minute, scintille^cent, and tremulous star 
Swinging under her globe like a wizard-lit car, 
Thus to each of those women revealing the 

face 
Of the other. Each bore on her features the 

trace 
Of a vivid emotion. A deep inward shame 
The cheek of Matilda had flooded with flame. 
With her enthusiastic emotion, Lucile 
Trembled visibly yet; for she could not but 

feel 
That a heavenly hand was upon her that night, 
And it touched her pure brow to a heavenly 

light. 
•^'In the name of your husband, dear lady," 

she said; 
*** In the name of your mother, take heart ! Lift 

your head. 
For those blushes are noble. Alas ! do not trust 
To that maxim of virtue made ashes and dust, 
That the fault of the husband can cancel the 

wife's. 
Take heart! and take refuge and strength in 

your life's 



LUCILE. 275 

Pure silence, — there, kneel, pray, and hope, 

weep, and wait!" 
*' Saved, Lucile!" sobb'd Matilda, **but saved 

to what fate? 
Tears, prayers, yes! not hopes." 

*'Hush!" the sweet voice replied. 
**Foord away by a fancy, again to your side 
Must your husband return. Doubt not this- 

And return 
For the love you can give, with the love that 

you yearn 
To receive, lady. What was it chill' d you 

both now? 
Not the absence of love, but the ignorance how 
Love is nourished by love. Well! henceforth 

you will prove 
Your heart worthy of love, — since it knows how 

to love." 

XITI. 

**What gives you such power over me, that I 
feel 

Thus drawn to obey you? What are you, Lu- 
cile?" 

Sigh'd Matilda, and lifted her eyes to the face 

Of Lucile. 

There pass'd suddenly through it the trace 

Of deep sadness; and o*er that fair forehead 
came down 

A shadow which yet was too sweet for a frown. 

**The pupil of sorrow, perchance" . . . she 
replied. 

**0f sorrow?" Matilda exclaimed . . . **0 con- 
fide 



276 LUCILE. 

To my heart your affliction. In all you made 

known 
I should find some instruction, no doubt, for 

my own ! ' * 

"And I some consolation, no doubt; for the 

tears 
Of another have not flow'd for me many 

years. ' ' 
It was then that Matilda herself seized the hand 
Of Lucile in her own, and uplifted her; and 
Thus together they enter'd the house. 

XIV. 

'Twas the room 
Of Matilda. 

The languid and delicate gloom 
Of a lamp of pure white alabaster, aloft 
From the ceiling suspended, around it slept 

soft. 
The casement oped into the garden. The pale 
Cool moonlight streamed through it. One lone 
nightingale sung aloof in the laurels. 

And here, side by side, 
Hand in hand, the two women sat down unde- 

scried 
Save by guardian angels. 

As, when, sparkling yet 
From the rain, that, with drops that are jewels, 

leaves wet 
The bright head it humbles, a young rose in- 
clines 
To some pale lily near it, the fair vision shines 
, As one flower with two faces, in hush'd tearful 
speech, 



LUCILE. 277 

Like the showery whispers of flowers, each to 

each 
Linked, and leaning together, so loving, so 

fair, 
So united, yet diverse, the two women there 
Look'd, indeed, like two flowers upon one 

drooping stem. 
In the soft light that tenderly rested on them. 
All that soul said to soul in that chamber, who 

knows? 
All that heart gain'd from heart? 

Leave the lily, the rose. 
Undisturbed with their secret within them. 

For who 
To the heart of the flowret can follow the dew? 
A night full of stars! 0*er the silence, unseen, 
The footsteps of sentinel angels, between 
The dark land and deep sky were moving. 

You heard 
Passed from earth up to heaven the happy 

watchword 
Which brightened the stars as amongst them it 

fell 
From earth's heart, which it eased. . . . ''AH 

is well! all is well!" 



CANTO IV. 
I. 



The Poets pour wine; and, when 'tis new, all 

decry it ; 
But, once let it be old, every trifler must try it. 



278 LUCILE. 

And Polonius, who praises no wine that's not 
Massic, 

Complains of my verse, that my verse is not 
classic. 

And Miss Tilburina, who sings, and not badly, 

My earlier verses, sighs * * Commonplace sadly ! ' * 

As for you, O Polonius, you vex me but 
slightly; 

But you, Tilburina, your eyes beam so brightly 

In despite of their languishing looks, on my 
word. 

That to see you look cross I can scarcely afford. 

Yes ! the silliest woman that smiles on a bard 

Better far than Longinus himself can reward 

The appeal to her feelings of which she ap- 
proves ; 

And the critics I most care to please are the 
Loves. 

Alas, friend ! what boots it, a stone at his head 

And a brass on his breast, — when a man is 
once dead? 

Ay ! were fame the sole guerdon, poor guerdon 
were then 

Theirs who, stripping life bare, stand forth 
models for men. 

The reformer's? — a creed by posterity learnt 

A century after its author is burnt ! 

The poet's? — a laurel that hides the bald 
brow 

It hath blighted! The painter's? — ask Raphael 
now 

Which Madonna's authentic! The states- 
man's? — a name 

For parties to blacken, or boys to declaim ! 



LUCILE. 279 

The soldier's? — three lines on the cold Abbey- 
pavement ! 
Were this all the life of the wise and the brave 

meant, 
All it ends in, thrice better, Neaera, it were 
Unregarded to sport with thine odorous hair, 
Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the shade 
And be loved, while the roses yet bloom over- 
head, 
Than to sit by the lone hearth, and think the 

long thought, 
A severe, sad, blind schoolmaster, envied for 

naught 
Save the name of John Milton! For all men, 

indeed, 
Who in some choice edition may graciously 

read. 
With fair illustration, and erudite note. 
The song which the poet in bitterness wrote. 
Beat the poet, and notably beat him, in this — 
The joy of the genius is theirs, whilst they miss 
The grief of the man: Tasso's song — not his 

madness! 
Dante's dreams — not his waking to exile and 

sadness ! 
Milton's music — but not Milton's blind- 
ness! . . . 

Yet rise, 
Mv Milton, and answer, with those noble eyes 
Which the glory of heaven hath blinded to 

earth ! 
Say — the life, in the living it, savors of worth : 
That the deed, in the doing it, reaches its aim: 
That the fact has a value apart from the fame : 



280 LUCILE. 

That a deeper delight, in the mere labor, pays 
Scorn of lesser delights, and laborious days: 
And Shakespeare, though all Shakespeare's 

writings were lost, 
And his genius, though never a trace of it 

crossed 
Posterity's path, not the less would have dwelt 
In the isle with Miranda, with Hamlet have 

felt 
All that Hamlet hath uttered, and haply where, 

pure 
On its death-bed, wrong*d Love lay, have 

moaned with the Moor! 

II. 

When Lord Alfred that night to the salon re- 
turned 
He found it deserted. The lamp dimly burn'd 
As though half out of humor to find itself there 
Forced to light for no purpose a room that was 

bare. 
He sat down by the window alone. Never yet 
Did the heavens of lovelier evening beget 
Since Latona's bright childbed that bore the 

new moon! 
The dark world lay still, in a sort of sweet 

swoon. 
Wide open to heaven; and the stars on the 

stream 
Were trembling like eyes that are loved on the 

dream 
Of a lover ; and all things were glad and at rest 
Save the unquiet heart in his own troubled 

breast. 



LUCILE. 281 

He endeavor'd to think — an unwonted employ- 
ment, 

Which appeared to afford him no sort of enjoy- 
ment. 

III. 

** Withdraw into yourself. But, if peace you 
seek there for, 

Your reception, beforehand, be sure to prepare 
for," 

Wrote the tutor of Nero ; who wrote, be it said, 

Better far than he acted — but peace to the 
dead! 

He bled for his pupil: what more could he do? 

But Lord Alfred, when into himself he with- 
drew, 

Found all there in disorder. For more than an 
hour 

He sat with his head droop'd like some stub- 
born flower 

Beaten down by the rush of the rain — with 
such force 

Did the thick, gushing thoughts hold upon him 
the course 

Of their sudden descent, rapid, rushing, and 
dim, 

From the cloud that had darkened the evening 
for him. 

At one moment he rose — rose and opened the 
door. 

And wistfully looked down the dark corridor 

Toward the room of Matilda. Anon, with a 
sigh 

Of an incomplete purpose, he crept quietly 



282 LUCILE. 

Back again to his place in a sort of submission 
To doubt, and return'd to his former position, — 
That loose fall of the arms, that dull droop of 

the face, 
And the eye vaguely fix 'd on impalpable space. 
The dream, which till then had been lulling his 

life, 
As once Circe the winds, had seaVd thought; 

and his wife 
And his home for a time he had quite, like 

Ulysses, 
Porgotten; but now o'er the troubled Abysses 
Of the spirit within him, aeolian, forth leapt 
To their freedom new-found, and resistlessly 

swept 
All his heart into tumult, the thoughts which 

had been 
Long pent up in their mystic recesses unseen, 

IV. 

How long he thus sat there, himself he knew'' 
not. 

Till he started, as though he were suddenly 
shot, 

To the sound of a voice too familiar to doubt, 

Which was making some noise in the passage 
without, 

A sound English voice, with a round English 
accent. 

Which the scared German echoes resentfully 
back sent; 

The complaint of a much disappointed cab- 
driver 



LUCILE. 283 

Mingled with it, demanding some ultimate 

stiver ; 
Then, the heavy and hurried approach of a 

boot 
Which reveard by its sound no diminutive foot 
And the door was flung suddenly open, and on 
The threshold Lord Alfred by bachelor John 
Was seized in that sort of affectionate rage or 
Frenzy of hugs which some stout Ursa Major 
On some lean Ursa Minor would doubtless be- 
stow 
With a warmth for which only starvation and 

snow 
Could render one grateful. As soon as he 

could. 
Lord Alfred contrived to escape, nor be food 
Any more for those somewhat voracious em« 

braces. 
Then the two men sat down and scanned each 

other's faces; 
And Alfred could see that his cousin was taken 
With unwonted emotion. The hand that had 

shaken 
His own trembled somewhat. In truth he de- 
scried, 
At a glance, something wrong. 



** What's the matter?'' he cried. 
*What have you to tell me?" 

John. 
What! have you not heard? 



284 LUCILE. 

Alfred. 
Heard what? 

John. 

This sad business — 

Alfred. 

I? no, not a word. 
John. 

Yon received my last letter? 

Alfred. 

I think so. If not, 
What then? 

John. 

Yon have acted upon it? 

Alfred. 

On what? 
John. 

The advice that I gave you — 

Alfred. 

Advice? — let me see? 
You always are giving advice, Jack, to me. 
About Parliament was it? 

John. 

Hang Parliament! no. 
The Bank, the Bank, Alfred! 

Alfred. 

What Bank? 



LUCILE. 285 

John. 

Heavens! I know 
You are careless ; — but surely you have not for- 
gotten, — 
Or neglected ... I warn'd you the whole 

thing was rotten. 
You have drawn those deposits at least? 

Alfred. 

No, I meant 
To have written to-day ; but the note shall be 

sent 
To-morrow, however. ^ 

John. 

To-morrow? too late! 
Too late! oh, what devil bewitched you to wait? 

Alfred. 

Mercy save us! you don*t mean to say . . . 

John. 

Yes, I do. 
Alfred. 

What! Sir Ridley? . . . 

John. 

Smash'd, broken, blown up, bolted, too! 

Alfred. 

But his own niece? ... In heaven's name. 
Jack. . . . 

John. 

Oh, I told you 
The old hypocritical scoundrel would . . . 



286 LUClLE. 

Alfred. 

Hold! you 
Surely can't mean we are ruin'd? 

John. 

Sit down! 
A fortnight ago a report about town 
Made me most apprehensive. Alas, and alas! 
I at once wrote and warn'd you. Well, now 

let that pass. 
A run on the Bank about five days ago 
Confirm 'd my forebodings too terribly, though. 
I drove down to the city at once; found the 

door 
Of the Bank closed ; the Bank had stopp'd pay- 
ment at four. 
Next morning the failure was known to be 

fraud ; 
Warrant out for McNab; but McNab was 

abroad : 
Gone — we cannot tell where. I endeavored to 

get 
Information: have learned nothing certain as 

yet — 
Not even the way that old Ridley was gone : 
Or with those securities what he had done : 
Or whether they had been already caird out: 
If they are not, their fate is, I fear, past a 

doubt. 
Twenty families ruin'd, they say: what was 

left,— 
Unable to find any clew to the cleft 
The old fox ran to earth in, — but join you as 

fast 



LUCILE. ^87 

As I could, my dear Alfred?* 

IV. 

He stopp*d here, aghast 
At the change in his cousin, the hue of whose 

face 
Had grown livid; and glassy his eyes fix'd on 

space. 
*** Courage, courage!** . . . said John, . . . 

*'bear th^ blow like a man!'* 
And he caught the cold hand of Lord Alfred. 

There ran 
Through that hand a quick tremor. *'I bear 

it, * * he said, 
''But Matilda? the blow is to her!** And his 

head 
Seem'd forced down, as he said it. 

John. 

Matilda? Pooh, pooh! 
I half think I know the girl better than you. 
She has courage enough — and to spare. She 

cares less 
Than most women for luxury, nonsense, and 
dress. 

Alfred. 

The fault has been mine. 



*These events, it is needless to say, Mr. Morse, 

Took place when Bad News as yet travel' d by horse; 

Ere the world, like a cockchafer, buzz'd on a wire, 

Or Time was calcined by electrical fire ; 

Ere a cable went under the hoary Atlantic, 

Or the word Telegram drove grammarians frantic. 



288 LUCILE. 

John. 

Be it yours to repair it : 
If you did not avert, you may help her to bear 
it. 

Alfred. 

I might have averted. 

John. 

Perhaps so. But now 
There is clearly no use in considering how, 
Or whence, came the mischief. The mischief 

is here. 
Broken shins are not mended by crying — that's 

clear ! 
One has but to rub them and get up again, 
And push on — and not think too much of the 

pain. 
And at least it is much that you see that to her 
You owe too much to think of yourself. You 

must stir 
And arouse yourself, Alfred, for her sake. Who 

knows? 
Something yet may be saved from this wreck. 

I suppose 
We shall make him disgorge all he can, at the 

least. 
**0 Jack, I have been a brute idiot! a beast! 
A fool! I have sinn'd, and to her I have 

sinn'd! 
I have been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind ! 
And now, in a flash, I see all things!'' 

As though 
To shut out the vision, he bow'd his head low 




' Knew not her husband stood watching." — Page 295. 

Lucile. 



LUCILE. 289 

On his hands; and the great tears in silence 
roird on, 

And fell momently, heavily, one after one. 

John felt no desire to find instant relief 

For the trouble he witness'd. 

He gness'd, in the grief 

Of his cousin, the broken and heartfelt admis- 
sion 

Of some error demanding a heartfelt contri- 
tion : 

Some oblivion perchance which could plead 
less excuse 

To the heart of a man re-aroused to the use 

Of the conscience God gave him, than simply 
and merely 

The neglect for which now he was paying so 
dearly. 

So he rose without speaking, and paced up and 
down 

The long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his 
own 

Cordial heart for Matilda. 

Thus, silently lost 

In his anxious reflection, he crossed and re- 
cross'd 

The place where his cousin yet hopelessly hung 

O'er the table; his fingers entwisted among 

The rich curls they were knotting and drag- 
ging: and there, 

That sound of all sounds the most painful to 
hear. 

The sobs of a man ! Yet so far in his own 

Kindly thoughts was he plunged, he already 
had grown 

19 Lucile 



290 LUCILE. 

Unconscious of Alfred. 

And so for a space 
There was silence between them. 

VII. 

At last, with sad face 
He stopp'd short, and bent on his cousin awhile 
A pain'd sort of wistful, compassionate smile. 
Approached him — stood o'er him, — and sud- 
denly laid 
One hand on his shoulder — 

''Where is she?" he said. 
Alfred lifted his face all disfigured with tears 
And gazed vacantly at him, like one that ap- 
pears 
In some foreign language to hear himself 

greeted, 
Unable to answer. 

''Where is she?" repeated 
His cousin. 

He motion'd his hand to the door; 
*' There, I think," he replied. Cousin John 

said no more. 
And appear 'd to relapse to his own cogitations, 
Of which not a gesture vouchsafed indica- 
tions. 
So again there was silence. 

A timepiece at last 
•Struck the twelve strokes of midnight. 

Roused by them, he cast 
A half-look to the dial; then quietly threw 
His arm round the neck of his cousin, and drew 
The hands down from his face. 

"It is time she should know 



LUCILE. 291 

What has happened,' he said, . . . **let us ga 

to her now. * 
Alfred started at once to his feet. 

Drawn and wan 
Though his face, he look'd more than his wont 

was — a man. 
Strong for once, in his weakness. Uplifted, 

fill d through 
With a manly resolve. 

If that axiom be true 
Of the ''Sum quia cogito^'' I must opine 
That ''id sum quod cogito:'' — that which, in 

fine, 
A man thinks and feels, with his whole force 

of thought 
And feeling, the man is himself. 

He had fought 
With himself, and rose up from his self -over- 
throw 
The survivor of much which that strife had laid 

low. 
At his feet, as he rose at the name of his wife^ 
Lay in ruins the brilliant unrealized life 
Which, though yet unfulfiird, seem'd till then,. 

in that name. 
To be his, had he claimed it. The man's dream 

of fame 
And of power fell shattered before him; and 

only 
There rested the heart of the woman, so lonely 
In all save the love he could give her. The 

lord 
Of that heart he arose. Blush not, Muse, to 

record 



292 LUCILE. 

That his first thought, and last, at that moment 

was not 
Of the power and fame that seem'd lost to his 

lot. 
But the love that was left to it ; not of the pelf 
He had cared for, yet squandered ; and not of 

himself, 
But of her; as he murmur'd, 

'*One moment, dear Jack! 
We have grown up from boyhood together. 

Our track 
Has been through the same meadows in child- 
hood: in youth 
Through the same silent gateways, to manhood. 

In truth. 
There is none that can know me as you do ; 

and none 
To whom I more wish to believe myself known. 
Speak the truth; you are not wont to mince it, 

I know. 
Nor I, shall I shirk it, or shrink from it now. 
In despite of a wanton behavior, in spite 
Of vanity, folly, and pride. Jack, which might 
Have turn'd from me many a heart strong and 

true 
As your own, I have never turned round and 

miss'd YOU 
From my side in one hour of affliction or doubt 
By my own blind and heedless self-will brought 

about. 
Tell me truth. Do I owe this alone to the sake 
Of those old recollections of boyhood that make 
In your heart yet some clinging and crying 

appeal 



LUCILE. 293 

From a judgment more harsh, which I cannot 

but feel 
Might have sentenced our friendship to death 

long ago? 
Or is it . . . (I would I could deem it were so !) 
That, not all overlaid by a listless exterior, 
Your heart has divined in me something 

superior 
To that which I seem; from my innermost 

nature 
Not wholly expeird by the world's usurpature? 
Some instinct of earnestness, truth or desire 
For truth? Some one spark of the soul's native 

fire 
Moving under the ashes, and cinders, and dust 
Which life hath heap'd o'er it? Some one fact 

to trust 
And to hope in? Or by you alone am I deem'd 
The mere frivolous fool I so often have seem'd 
To my own self?'* 

John. 

No, Alfred ! you will, I believe, 
Be true, at the last, to what now makes you 

grieve 
For having belied your true nature so long 
Necessity is a stern teacher. Be strong! 



*Do you think," he resumed . . , '*what I 

feel while I speak 
Is no more than a transient emotion, as weak 
As these weak tears would seem to betoken it?" 



294 LUCILE. 

John. 

No. 
Alfred. 
Thank you, cousin! your hand then. And 

now I will go 
Alone, Jack. Trust to me. 

VIII. 

John. 

I do. But 'tis late 
If she sleeps, you'll not wake her? 

Alfred. 

No, no I it will wait 
(Poor infant) too surely, this mission of sorrow^ 
If she sleeps, I will not mar her dreams of 

to-rnorrow. 
He open'd the door, and pass'd out. 

Cousin John 
Watch 'd him wistful, and left him to seek her 

alone. 
His heart beat so loud when he knock 'd at her 

door, 
He could hear no reply from within. Yet once 

more 
He knock'd lightly. No answer. The handle 

he tried : 
The door open'd: he enter'd the room unde- 

scried. 

X. 

No brighter than is that dim circlet of light 
Which enhaloes the moon when rains form on 
the night, 



LUCILE. 295 

The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shed 

Round the chamber, in which, at her pure 
snowy bed 

Matilda was kneeling ; so wrapt in deep prayer 

That she knew not her husband stood watch- 
ing her there. 

With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled 
a faint 

And unearthly effulgence which seem'd to 
acquaint 

The whole place with a sense of deep peace 
. made secure 

By the presence of something angelic and pure. 

And not purer some angel Grief carves o'er 
the tomb 

Where love lies, than the lady that kneeVd in 
that gloom. 

She had put off her dress; and she look'd to 
his eyes 

Like a young soul escaped from its earthly dis- 
guise; 

Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were 
bare. 

And over them rippled her soft golden hair; 

Her simple and slender white bodice unlaced 

Confined not one curve of her delicate waist. 

As the light that, from water reflected, forever 

Trembles up through the tremulous reeds of a 
river. 

So the beam of her beauty went trembling in 
him, 

Through the thoughts it suffused with a sense 
soft and dim. 

Reproducing itself in the broken and bright 



296 LUCILE. 

Lapse and pulse of a million emotions. 

That sight 

Bow'd his heart, bow'd his knee. Knowing 
scarce what he did, 

To her side through the chamber he silently- 
slid, 

And knelt down beside her — and pray'd at her 
side. 

XI. 

Upstarting, she then for the first time descried 
That her husband was near her, suffused with 

the blush 
Which came o'er her soft pallid cheek with a 

gush 
Where the tears sparkled yet. 

As a young fawn uncouches. 
Shy with fear, from the fern where some 

hunter approaches. 
She shrank back ; he caught her, and circling 

his arm 
Round her waist, on her brow press'd one kiss 

long and warm. 
Then her fear changed in impulse; and hiding 

her face 
On his breast, she hung lock'd in a clinging 

embrace 
With her soft arms wound heavily round him, 

as though 
She fear'd, if their clasp was relaxed, he would 

go: 
Her smooth, naked shoulders, uncaredfor, con- 
vulsed 
By sob after sob, w^hile her bosom yet pulsed 



LUCILE. 297 

In its pressure on his, as the effort within it 
Lived and died with each tender tumultuous 

minute. 
'*0 Alfred, O Alfred! forgive me, she cried 
— *' Forgive me!" 

** Forgive you, my poor child!" he sigh'd; 
*'But I never have blamed you for aught that 

I know, 
And I have not one thought that reproaches 

you now.'* 
From her arms he unwound himself gently. 

And so 
He forced her down softly beside him. Below 
The canopy shading their couch, they sat down. 
And he said, clasping firmly her hand in his 

own, 
**When a proud man, Matilda, has found out 

at length. 
That he is but a child in the midst of his 

strength, 
But a fool in his wisdom, to whom can he own 
The weakness which thus to himself hath been 

shown? 
From whom seek the strength which his need 

of is sore. 
Although in his pride he might perish, before 
He could plead for the one, or the other avow 
*Mid his intimate friends? Wife of mine, tell 

me now, 
Do you join me in feeling, in that darkened 

hour. 
The sole friend that can have the right or the 

power 
To be at his side, is the woman that shares 

20 Lucile 



298 LUCILE. 

His fate, if he falter ; the woman that bears 
The name dear for her sake, and hallows the 

life 
She has mingled her own with, — in short, that 

man's wife?*' 
**Yes," murmur 'd Matilda, *'0 yes!*' 

*'Then," he cried, 
*'This chamber in which we two sit, side by side 
(And his arm, as he spoke, seem'd more softly 

to press her), 
Is now a confessional — you, my confessor!'' 
*'I?" she f altered, and timidly lifted her head. 
*'Yes! but first answer one other question," he 

said: 
*'When a woman once feels that she is not 

alone : 
That the heart of another is warm'd by her 

own 
That another feels with her whatever she feel. 
And halves her existence in woe or in weal ; 
That a man for her sake, well, so long as 

he lives ; 
Lives to put forth his strength which the 

thought of her gives; 
Live to shield her from want, and to share with 

her sorrow ; 
Live to solace the day, and provide for the 

morrow : 
Will that woman feel less than another, O say, 
The loss of what life, sparing this, takes away? 
Will she feel (feeling this), when calamities 

come, 
That they brighten the heart, though they 

darken the home?" 



LUCILE. 299 

She turn'd, like a soft rainy heav'n, on him 
Eyes that smiled through fresh tears, trustful, 

tender, and dim. 
**That woman/' she murmur'd, **indeed, were 

thrice blest!'* 
*'Then, courage, true wife of my heart!" to his 

breast 
As he folded and gather'd her closely, he cried, 
*'For the refuge, to-night in these arms open'd 

wide 
To your heart, can be never closed to it again, \ 
And this room is for both an asylum! For \ 

when 
I pass'd through that door, at the door I left 

there 
A calamity sudden apd heavy to bear. 
One step from that threshold, and daily, I fear, 
We must face it henceforth ; but it enters not 

here, 
For that door shuts it out, and admits here 

alone 
A heart which calamity leaves all your own!" 
She started . . . **Calamity, Alfred, to you?*' 
**To both, my poor child, but 'twill bring with 

it too 
The courage, I trust, to subdue it. ' ' 

**0 speak! 
Speak!" she falter'd in tones timid, anxious, 

and weak. 
**0 yet for a moment," he said, **hear me on! 
Matilda, this morn we went forth in the sun. 
Like those children of sunshine, the bright 

summer flies, 



300 LUCILE. 

That sport in the sunbeam, and play through 

the skies 
While the skies smile, and heed not each other; 

at last, 
When their sunbeam is gone, and their sky 

overcast, 
Who recks in what ruin they fold their wet 

wings? 
So, indeed, the morn found us, — poor frivolous 

things! 
Now our sky is o'ercast, and our sunbeam is 

set, 
And the night brings its darkness around us. 

Oh, yet 
Have we weather' d no storm through those 

twelve cloudless hours? 
Yes ; you, too, have wept ! 

''While the world was yet ours, 
While its sun was upon us, its incense stream 'd 

to us. 
And its myriad voices of joy seem'd to woo us, 
We stray 'd from each other, too far, it may 

be, 
Nor, wantonly wandering, then did I see 
How deep was my need of thee, dearest, how 

great 
Was thy claim on my heart and thy share in 

my fate! 
But, Matilda, an angel was near us, mean- 
while. 
Watching o'er us to warn, and to reccue! 

'^That smile 
Which you saw with suspicion, that presence 

you eyed ^.. 



LUCILE. 301 

With resentment, an angel's they were at your 

side 
And at mine : nor perchance is the day all so 

far 
When we both in our prayers, when most 

heartfelt they are, 
May murmur the name of that woman now 

gone 
From our sight evermore. 

'*Here, this evening, alone, 
I seek your forgiveness, in opening my heart 
Unto yours, — from this clasp be it never to 

part! 
Matilda, the fortune you brought me is gone. 
But a prize richer far than that fortune has 

won 
It is yours to confer, and I kneel for that prize, 
-Tis the heart of my wife!" With suffused 

happy eyes 
She sprang from her seat, flung her arms wide 

apart, 
And tenderly closing them round him^ his 

heart 
Clasp d in one close embrace to her bosom;- 

and there 
Droop'd her head on his shoulder; and sobb'd. 

Not despair, 
Not sorrow, not even the sense of her loss, 
Flow'd in those happy tears, so oblivious she 

was 
Of all save the sense of her own love ! Anon, 
However, his words rush'd back to her. *'A11 

gone, 
The fortune you brought me!" 



802 LUCILE. 

And eyes that were dim 
With soft tears she upraised : but those tears 

were for him. 
'*Gone! my husband?" she said, **tell me all! 

see! I need, 
To sober this rapture, so selfish indeed. 
Fuller sense of affliction. ' ' 

**Poor innocent child!" 
He kiss'd her fair forehead, and mournfully 

smiled. 
As he told her the tale he had heard — some- 
thing more 
The gain found in loss of what gain lost of 

yore. 
"Rest, my heart, and my brain, and my right 

hand for you ; 
And with these, my Matilda, what may I not 

do? 
And know not, I knew not myself till this hour. 
Which so sternly reveal' d it, my nature's full 

power. ' ' 
''And I, too," she murmur'd, *'I, too, am no 

more 
.The mere infant at heart you have known me 

before. 
I have suffer'd since then. I have learn'd 

much in life. 
O take, with the faith I have pledged as a 

wife, 
The heart I have learn 'd as a woman to feel! 
For I — love you, my husband!" 

As though to conceal 
Less from him, than herself, with that motion 

express'd, 



LUCILE. 303 

She dropped her bright head, and hid all on 
his breast. 

*'0 lovely as woman, beloved as wife! 

Evening star of my heart, light forever my 
life! 

If from eyes fix'd too long on this base earth 
thus far 

You have miss'd your due homage, dear guar- 
dian star, 

Believe that, uplifting those eyes unto heaven, 

There I see you, and know you, and bless the 
light given 

To lead me to life's late achievement; my own, 

My blessing, my treasure, my all things in 
one!** 

XII. 

How lovely she look*d in the lovely moonlight, 
That stream'd thro' the pane from the blue 

balmy night! 
How lovely she look'd in her own lovely youth, 
As she clung to his side full of trust and of 

truth ! 
How lovely to him, as he tenderly press *d 
Her young head on his bosom, and sadly ca- 

ress'd 
The glittering tresses which now shaken loose 
Shower'd gold in his hand, as he smoothed 
them! 

XIII. 

O Muse, 
Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating 
heart 



304 LUCILE. 

'Twixt these two silent souls! There's a joy- 
beyond art, 

And beyond sound the music it makes in the 
breast. 

XIV. 

Here were lovers twice wed, that were happy 

at least ! 
No music, save such as the nightingales sung, 
Breath 'd their bridals abroad; and no cresset, 

up-hung, 
Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was 

given 
From the pure stars that peopled the deep- 
purple heaven. 
He open'd the casement: he led her with him, 
Hush'd in heart, to the terrace, dipp'd cool in 

the dim 
Lustrous gloom of the shadowy laurels. They 

heard 
Aloof, the invisible, rapturous bird, 
With her wild note bewildering the woodlands; 

they saw 
Not unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet draw 
His long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with 

cheer 
From the throat of the vale; o'er the dark 

sapphire sphere 
The mild, multitudinous lights lay asleep, 
Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as 

the sheep 
Of Apollo in pastoral Thrace; from unknown 
Hollow glooms freshen'd odors around them 

were blown 



LUCILE. 305 

Intermittingly ; then the moon dropp'd from 
their sight, 

Immersed in the mountains, and put out the 
light 

Which no longer they needed to read on the 
face 

Of each other's life's last revelation. 

The place 

Slept sumptuous round them ; and Nature, 
that never 

Sleeps, but waking reposes, with patient en- 
deavor 

Continued about them, unheeded, unseen. 

Her old, quiet toil in the heart of the green 

Summer silence, preparing new buds for new 
blossoms, 

And stealing a finger of change o'er the bosoms 

Of the unconscious woodlands ; and Time, that 
halts not 

His forces, how lovely soever the spot 

Where their march lies — the wary, gray strat- 
egist. Time, 

With the armies of Life, lay encamp 'd — Grief 
and Crime, 

Love and Faith, in the darkness unheeded; 
maturing, 

For his great war with men, new surprises: 
securing 

All outlets, pursuing and pushing his foe 

To his last narrow refuge — the grave. 



20 



306 LUCILE. 

XV. 

Sweetly though 
Smiled the stars like new hopes out of heaven, 

and sweetly 
Their hearts beat thanksgiving for all things, 

completely 
Confiding in that yet untrodden existence 
Over which they were pausing. To-morrow, 

resistance 
And struggle; to-night, Love his hallow'd de- 
vice 
Hung forth, and proclaim 'd his serene armis- 
tice. 



CANTO V. 



When Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long 

hours 
In her chamber, fatigued by long overwrought 

powers, 
'Mid the signs of departure, about to turn back 
To her old vacant life, on her old homeless 

track. 
She felt her heart falter within her. She sat 
Like some poor player, gazing dejectedly at 
The insignia of royalty worn for a night, 
Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light. 
And the effort of passionate feigning; who 

thinks 
Of her own meager, rush-lighted garret, and 

shrinks 
From the chill of the change that awaits her. 



LUCILE. ^ 307 

II. 

From these 
Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries 
Unable to sleep, she descended the stair 
That led from her room to the garden. 

The air, 
With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n but at 

hand, 
Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. 

The land 
Lay in darkness and change, like a world in 

its grave : 
No sound, save the voice of the long river 

wave 
And the crickets that sing all the night! 

She stood still, 
Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'd 

on the hill. 
Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at 

stir. 
And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in 

her. 
Ah, pale woman! what, with that heart-broken 

look, 
Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart- 
breaking book? 
Have the wild rains of heaven a father? and 

who 
Hath in pity begotten the drops of the dew? 
Orion, Arcturus, who pilots them both? 
What leads forth in his season the bright Maz- 

aroth? 
Hath the darkness a dwelling, — save there, in 

those eyes? 



308 LUCILE. 

And what name hath that half-reveal'd hope 
in the skies? 

Ay, question, and listen! What answer? 

The sound 

Of the long river wave through its stone- 
troubled bound, 

And the crickets that sing all the night. 

There are hours 

Which belong to unknown, supernatural 
powers 

Whose sudden and solemn suggestions are all 

That to this race of worms, — stinging creat- 
ures, that crawl, 

Lie, and fear, and die daily, beneath their 
own stings, — 

Can excuse the blind boast of inherited wings. 

When the soul, on the impulse of anguish, 
hath pass'd 

Beyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last; 

When she traverses nature and space, till she 
stands 

In the Chamber of Fate ; where, through tremu- 
lous hands. 

Hum the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff 
uncurl* d. 

And those three blind old women sit spinning 
the world. 

III. 

The dark was blanch'd, wan, overhead. One 

green star 
Was slipping from sight in the pale void afar; 
The spirit of change, and of awe, with faint 

breath, 



LUCILE. 309 

Were shifting the midnight, above and be- 
neath. 

The spirits of awe and of change were around 

And about, and upon her. 

A dull muffled sound, 

And a hand on her hand, like a ghostly sur- 
prise, 

And she felt herself fix'd by the hot hollow 
eyes 

Of the Frenchman before her: those eyes 
seemed to burn, 

And scorch out the darkness between them, 
and turn, 

Into fire as they fix'd her. He look'd like the 
shade 

Of a creature by fancy some solitude made. 

And sent forth by the darkness to scare and 
oppress 

Some soul of a monk in a waste wilderness. 

IV. 

*' At last, then, — at last, and alone, — I and thou, 
Lucile de Nevers, have we met? 

''Hush! I know 
Not for me was the tryst. Never mind ! it is 

mine; 
And whatever led hither those proud steps of 

thine, 
They remove not, until we have spoken. My 

hour 
Is come; and it holds me and thee in its power, 
As the darkness holds both the horizons. 'Tis 

well! 
The timidest maiden that e'er to the spell 



310 LUCILE. 

Of her first lover's vows listened, hush'd with 
delight, 

When soft stars are brightly uphanging in the 
night, 

Never listened, I swear, more unquestion- 
ingly, 

Than thy fate hath compell'd thee to listen to 
me!" 

To the sound of his voice, as though out of a 
dream, 

She appear'd with a start to awaken. 

The stream, 

When he ceased, took the night with its moan- 
ing again, 

Like the voices of spirits departing in pain. 

*' Continue," she answered, "I listen to hear." 

For a moment he did not reply. 

Through the drear 

And dim light between them, she saw that 
his face 

Was disturb 'd. To and fro he continued to 
pace, 

With his arms folded close, and the low rest- 
less stride 

Of a panther, in circles around her, first wide, 

Then narrower, nearer, and quicker. At last 

He stood still, and one long look upon her he 
cast, 

''Lucile, dost thou dare to look into my face? 

Is the sight so repugnant? ha, well! canst 
thou trace 

One word of thy writing in this wicked scroll, 

With thine own name scrawl'd through it, de- 
facing a soul?" 



LUCILE. 311 

In his face there was something so wrathful 

and wild, 
That the sight of it scared her. 

He saw it, and smiled, 
And then turn'd him from her. renewing 

again 
That short restless stride ; as though searching 

in vain 
For the point of some purpose within him. 

'*Lucile, 
You shudder to look in my face : do you feel 
No reproach when you look in your own 
heart?" 

''No, Duke, 
In my conscience I do not deserve your rebuke : 
Not yours!" she replied. 

"No," he mutter'd again, 
** Gentle justice! you first bid Life hope not, 

and then 
To Despair you say 'Act not!' " 



He watch 'd her awhile 
With a chill sort of restless and suffering smile. 
They stood by the wall of the garden. The 

skies, 
Dark, somber, were troubled with vague proph- 
ecies 
Of the dawn yet far distant. The moon had 

long set, 
And all in a glimmering light, pale, and wet 
With the night-dews, the white roses sullenly 
loomed 



312 LUCILE. 

Round about her. She spoke not. At length 

he resumed, 
** Wretched creatures we are! I and thou — one 

and all! 
Only able to injure each other and fall 
Soon or late, in that void which ourselves we 

prepare 
For the souls that we boast of ! weak insects 

we are! 
O heaven! and what has become of them? all 
Those instincts of Eden surviving the Fall: 
That glorious faith in inherited things: 
That sense in the soul of the length of her 

wings; 
Gone! all gone! and the wail of the night wind 

sounds human, 
Bewailing those once nightly visitants ! Woman 
Woman, what hast thou done with my youth? 

Give again. 
Give me back the young heart that I gave 

thee ... in vain!" 
**Duke!'' she f alter 'd. 

**Yes, yes!" he went on, *'I was not 
Always thus! what I once was I have not for- 
got." 

VI. 

As the wind that heaps sand in a desert, there 

stirr'd 
Through his voice an emotion that swept every 

word 
Into one angry wail ; as, with feverish change, 
He continued his monologue, fitful and strange. 
**Woe to him in whose nature, once kindl'd, 

the torch 



LUCILE. 313 

Of Passion burns downward to blacken and 

scorch ! 
But shame, shame and sorrow, O woman, to 

thee 
Whose hand sow'd the seed of destruction in 

me! 
Whose lip taught the lesson of falsehood to 

mine! 
Whose looks made me doubt lies that look'd so 

divine. ' ' 
My soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep : 
And if tears I mistrust, 'tis that thou too canst 

weep! 
Well ! . . . how utter soever it be, one mistake 
In the love of a man, what more change need 

it make 
In the steps of his soul through the course 

love began. 
Than all other mistakes in the life of a man? 
And I said to myself, ''lam young yet: too 

young 
To have wholly survived my own portion 

among 
The great needs of man's life, or exhausted its 

joys; 
What is broken? one only of youth's pleasant 

toys ! 
Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I go, 
For one passion survived? No! the roses will 

blow 
As of yore, as of yore will the nightingales 

sing. 
Not less sweetly for one blossom cancel'd from 

Spring ! 



314 LUCILE. 

Hast thon loved, O my heart? to thy love yet 

remains 
All the wide loving-kindness of nature. The 

plains 
And the hills with each summer their verdure 

renew 
Would thou be as they are? do thou then as 

they do, 
Let the dead sleep in peace. Would the living 

divine 
Where they slumber? Let only new flowers 

be the sign!" 

**Vain! all vain! . . . For when, laughing, the 

wine I would quaff 
I remember'd too well all it cost me to laugh. 
Through the revel it was but the old song I 

heard. 
Through the crowd the old footsteps behind 

me they stirr'd, 
In the night- wind, the starlight, the murmurs 

of even 
In the ardors of earth, and the languors of 

heaven, 
I could trace nothing more, nothing more 

through the spheres. 
But the sound of old sobs, and the track of old 

tears ! 
It was with me the night long in dreaming or 

waking. 
It abided in loathing, when daylight was 

breaking, 
The burden of the bitterness in me ! Behold, 
All my days were become as a tale that is told. 



LUCILE. 315 

And I said to my sight, *'No good thing shalt 

thou see, 
For the noonday is turned to darkness in me. 
In the house of Oblivion my bed I have made. * * 
And I said to the grave, *Lo, my father!' and 

said 
To the worm, 'Lo, my sister!' The dust to 

the dust, 
And one end to the wicked shall be with the 

just!" 

VII. 

He ceased, as a wind that wails out on the 
night. 

And moans itself mute. Through the indis- 
tinct light 

A voice clear, and tender, and pure with a tone 

Of ineffable pity replied to his own. 

*'And say you, and deem you, that I wreck 'd 
your life? 

Alas ! Due de Luvois, had I been your wife 

By a fraud of the heart which could yield you 
alone 

For the love in your nature a lie in my own. 

Should I not, in deceiving, have injured you 
worse? 

Yes, I then should have merited justly your 
curse. 

For I then should have wrong'd you!" 

'*Wrong'd! ah, is it so? 

You could never have loved me?" 

*'Duke!" 
** Never? oh, no!" 



316 LUCILE. 

(He broke into a fierce, angry laugh, as he 

said) 
*'Yet, lady, you knew that I loved you: you led 
My love on to lay to its heart, hour by hour. 
All the pale, cruel, beautiful, passionless 

power 
Shut up in that cold face of yours ! was this 

well? 
But enough ! not on you would I vent the wild 

hell 
Which has grown in my heart. Oh, that man, 

first and last 
He tramples in triumph my life! he has cast 
His shadow *twixt me and the sun ... let it 

pass! 
My hate yet may find him!" 

She murmur'd, *'Alas! 
These words, at least, spare me the pain of re- 
ply. 
Enough, Due de Luvois! farewell. I shall try 
To forget every word I have heard, every sight 
That has grieved and appall'd me in this 

wretched night 
Which must witness our final farewell. May 

you, Duke, 
Never know greater cause your own heart to 

rebuke 
I Than mine thus to wrong and afflict you have 

had! 
' Adieu!" 
*'Stay, Lucile, stay!" ... he groaned, *'I am 

mad, 
Brutalized, blind with pain ! I know not what 

I said. 



LUCILE. 317 

I meant it not, but*' (he moan'd, drooping 

his head) 
**Forgive me! I — have I so wrong'd you, Lu- 

cile? 
I . . . have I . . . forgive me, forgive me!'' 

*'I feel 
Only sad, very sad to the soul," she said, '*far, 
Far too sad for resentment. '' 

*'Yet stand as you are 
One moment/' he murmur' d. '*I think, could 

I gaze 
Thus awhile on your face, the old innocent 

days 
Would come back upon me, and this scorching 

heart 
Free itself in hot tears. Do not, do not depart 
Thus, Lucile ! stay one moment. I know why 

you shrink. 
Why you shudder; I read in your face what 

you think. 
Do not speak to me of it. And yet, if you will. 
Whatever you say, my own lips shall be still. 
I lied. And the truth, now, could justify 

nought. 
There are battles, it may be, in which to have 

fought 
Is more shameful than, simply, to fail. Yet, 

Lucile, 
Had you help'd me to bear what you forced me 

to feel—" 
**Could I help you," shemurmur'd, *'but what 

can I say 
That your life will respond to?" '*My life?" 

he sigh'd **Nay, 



318 LUCILE. 

My life hath brought forth only evil, and there 
The wild wind hath planted the wild weed: 

yet ere 
You exclaim, 'Fling the weed to the flames/ 

think ao^ain 
Why the field is so barren. With all other men 
First love, though it perish from life, only goes 
Like the primrose that falls to make way for 

the rose. 
For a man at least most men, may love on 

through life: 
Love in fame; love in knowledge; in work: 

earth is rife 
With labor, and therefore, with love, for a man. 
If one love fails, another succeeds, and the 

plan 
Of man's life includes love in all objects! But 

I? 
All such loves from my life through its whole 

destiny 
Fate excluded. The love that I gave you, alas ! 
Was the sole love that life gave to me. Let 

that pass! 
It perished and all perish'd with it. Ambition? 
Wealth left nothing to add to my social condi- 
tion. 
Fame? But fame in itself presupposes some 

great 
Field wherein to pursue and attain it. The 

State? 
I, to cringe to an upstart? The Camp? I, to 

draw 
From its sheath the old sword of the Dukes of 

Lnvois 



LUCILE. 319 

To defend usurpation? Books, then? Science, 

Art> 
But, alas! I was fashioned for action: my 

heart, 
Withered thing though it be, I should hardly 

compress 
"Twixt the leaves of a treatise on Statics: life's 

stress 
Needs scope, not contraction! what rests? to 

wear out 
At some dark northern court an existence, no 

doubt. 
In wretched and paltry intrigues for a cause 
As hopeless as in my own life! By the laws 
Of a fate I can neither control nor dispute, 
I am what I am ! * * 

VIII. 

For a while she was mute. 
Then she answered, **We are our own fates. 

Our own deeds 
Are our doomsmen. Man's life was made not 

for men's creeds 
But men's action. And, Due de Luvois, I 

might say 
That all life attests, that 'the will makes the 

way.* 
Is the land of our birth less the land of our 

birth. 
Or its claim the less strong, or its cause the less 

worth 
Our upholding, because the white lily no more 
Is as sacred as all that it bloom 'd for of yore? 
Yet be that as it may be; I cannot perchance 



320 LUCILE. 

Judge this matter. I am but a v/oman, and 

France 
Has for me simpler duties. Large hope, though 

Eugene 
De Luvois, should be yours. There is purpose 

in pain, 
Otherwise it were devilish. I trust in my soul 
That the great master hand which sweeps over 

the whole 
Of this deep harp of life, if at moments it 

stretch 
To shrill tension some one wailing nerve, 

means to fetch 
Its response the truest, most stringent, and 

smart, 
Its pathos the purest, from out the wrung 

heart 
Whose faculties, flaccid it may be, if less 
Sharply strung, sharply smitten, had faird to 

express 
Just the one note the great final harmony 

needs. 
And what best proves there's life in a heart? 

— that it bleeds? 
Grant a cause to remove, grant an end to at- 
tain, 
Grant both to be just, and what mercy in pain! 
Cease to sin with the sorrow! See morning 

begin ! 
Pain must burn itself out if not fueled by sin. 
There is hope in yon hill-tops, and love in yon 

light. 
Let hate and despondency die with the night!" 



LUCILE. 321 

He was moved by her words. As some poor 

wretch confined 
In cells loud with meaningless laughter, whose 

mind 
Wanders trackless amidst its own ruins, may 

hear 
A voice heard long since, silenced many a year, 
And now, 'mid mad ravings recaptured again, 
Sing through the caged lattice a once well- 
known strain, 
Which brings back his boyhood upon it, until 
The mind's ruin'd crevices graciously fill 
With music and memory, and as it were, 
The long-troubled spirit grows slowly aware 
Of the mockery round it, and shrinks from each 

thing 
It once sought, — the poor idiot who pass'd for 

a king, 
Hard by, with his squalid straw crown, now 

confessed 
A madman more painfully mad than the rest, — 
So the sound of her voice, as it there wander'd 

o'er 
His echoing heart, seem'd in part to restore 
The forces of thought : he recaptured the whole 
Of his life by the light which, in passing, her 

soul 
Reflected on his: he appear 'd to awake 
From a dream, and perceived he had dream'd 

a mistake : 
His spirit was soften 'd yet troubled in him: 
He felt his lips falter, his eyesight grow dim. 
But he murmur'd . . . 

**Lucile, not for me that sun's light 

21 Lucile 



322 LUCILE. 

Which reveals — not restores — the wild havoc of 

night. 
There are some creatures born for the night, 

not the day. 
Broken-hearted the nightingale hides in the 

spray, 
And the owVs moody mind in his own hollow 

tower 
Dwells muffled. Be darkness henceforward 

my dower. 
Light, be sure, in that darkness there dwells, 

by which eyes 
Grown familiar with ruins may yet recognize 
Enough desolation.*' 

IX. 

The pride that claims here 
On earth to itself (howsoever severe 
To itself it may be) God's dread office and right 
Of punishing sin, is a sin in heaven's sight, 
And against heaven's service. 

*' Eugene de Luvois, 
Leave the judgment to Him who alone knows 

the law. 
Surely no man can be his own judge, least of 

all 
His own doomsman. " 

Her words seem'd to fall 
With the weight of tears in them. 

He look'd up, and saw 
That sad serene countenance, mournful as 

law 
And tender as pity, bow'd o'er him : and heard 
In some thicket the matinal chirp of a bird. 



LUCILE. 323 

X. 

** Vulgar natures alone suffer vainly. 

^'Eugene/' 
She continued, •^in life we have met once 

again, 
And once more life parts us. Yon day-spring 

for me 
Lifts the vail of a future in which it may be 
We shall meet nevermore. Grant, oh grant to 

me yet 
The belief that it is not in vain we have met! 
I plead for the future. A new horoscope 
I would cast: will you read it? I plead for a 

hope: 
I plead for a memory ; yours, yours alone. 
To restore or to spare. Let the hope be your 

own, 
Be the memory mine. 

**Once of yore, when for man 
Faith yet lived, ere this age of the sluggard 

began. 
Men, aroused to the knowledge of evil, fled far 
From the fading rose-gardens of sense to the 

war 
With the Pagan, the cave in the desert, and 

sought 
Not repose, but employment in action or 

thought. 
Life's strong earnest, in all things! oh think 

not of me. 
But yourself! for I plead for your own destiny: 
I plead for your life, with its duties undone, 
With its claims unappeased, and its trophies 

unwon ; 



324 LUCILE. 

And in pleading for life's fair fulfillment, I 

plead 
For all that you miss, and for all that you 

need." 

XI. 

Through the calm crystal air, faint and fair, 
as she spoke, 

A clear, chilly chime from a church-turret 
broke ; 

And the sound of her voice, with the sound of 
the bell. 

On his ear where hekneel'd, softly, soothingly 
fell. 

All within him was wild and confused, as within 

A chamber deserted in some roadside inn, 

Where, passing, wild traveler paused, over- 
night. 

To quaff and carouse; in each socket each 
light 

Is extinct; crash 'd the glasses, and scrawl' d is 
the wall 

With wild ribald ballads; serenely o'er all. 

For the first time perceived, where the dawn- 
light creeps faint 

Through the wrecks of that orgy, the face of 
a saint 

Seen through some broken frame, appears not- 
ing meanwhile 

The ruin all round with a sorrowful smile. 

And he gazed round. The curtains of Dark- 
ness half drawn 

Oped behind her; and pure as the pure light 
of dawn 



LUCILE. 325 

She stood, bathed in morning, and seem'd to 

his eyes 
From their sight to be melting away in the 

skies 
That expand around her. 

XII. 

There pass'd through his head 
A fancy — a vision. That woman was dead 
He had loved long ago — loved and lost ! dead 

to him, 
Dead to all the life left him ; but there, in the 

dim 
Dewy light of the dawn, stood a spirit; 'twas 

hers; 
And he said to the soul of Lucile de Nevers : 
'*0 soul to its sources departing away! 
Pray for mine, if one soul for another may 

pray. 
I to ask have no right, thou to give hast no 

power. 
One hope to my heart. But in this parting 

hour 
I name not my heart and I speak not to thine. 
Answer, soul of Lucile, to this dark soul of 

mine. 
Does not soul owe to soul, what to heart heart 

denies, 
Hope, when hope is salvation? Behold, in yon 

skies, 
This wild night is passing away while I speak: 
Lo, above us, the day-spring beginning to 

break ! 



326 LUCILE. 

Something wakens within me, and warms to 
the beam. 

Is it hope that awakens? or do I but dream? 

I know not. It may be, perchance, the first 
spark 

Of a new light within me to solace the dark 

Unto which I return ; or perchance it may be 

The last spark of fires half extinguished in me. 

I know not. Thou goest thy way : I my own ; 

For good or for evil, I know not. Alone 

This I know we are parting. I wish'd to say 
more, 

But no matter! 'twill pass. All between us is 
o*er. 

Forget the wild words of to-night. 'Twas the 
pain 

For long years hoarded up, that rush'd from 
me again. 

I was unjust: forgive me. Spare now to re- 
prove 

Other words^ other deeds. It was madness, 
not love, 

That you thwarted this night. What is done 
is now done. 

Death remains to avenge it, or life to atone. 

I was madden'd! delirious! I saw you return 

To him — not to me ; and I felt my heart burn . 

With a fierce thirst for vengeance — and thus 
... let it pass! 

Long thoughts these, and so brief the mo- 
ments, alas! 

Thou goest thy way, and I mine. I suppose 

*Tis to meet nevermore. Is it not so? Who 
knows, 



LUCILE. 327 

Or who heeds, where the exile from Paradise 

flies? 
Or what altars of his in the desert may rise? 
It is not so, Lucile? Well, well! Thus then 

we part 
Once again, soul from soul, as before heart 

from heart!*' 

xiii. 

And again, clearer far than the chime of the 

bell, 
That voice on his sense softly, soothingly fell. 
**Our two paths must part us, Eugene; for my 

own 
Seems no more through that world in which 

henceforth alone 
You must work out (as now I believe that you 

will) 
The hope which you speark of. That work I 

shall still 
(If I live) watch and welcome, and bless far 

away. 
Doubt not this. But mistake not the thought, 

if I say 
That the great moral combat between human 

life 
And each human soul must be single. The 

strife 
None can share, though by all its results may 

be known. 
When the soul arms for battle, she goes forth 

alone. 
I say not, indeed, we shall meet nevermore. 



328 LUCILE. 

For I know not. But meet, as we have met of 

yore, 
I know that we cannot. Perchance we may 

meet 
By the death-bed, the tomb, in the crowd, in 

the street. 
Or in solitude even, but never again 
Shall we meet from henceforth as we have 

met, Eugene. 
For we know not the way we are going, nor 

yet 
Where our two ways may meet, or may cross. 

Life hath set 
No landmarks before us. But this, this alone, 
I will promise: whatever your path, or my 

own. 
If, for once in the conflict before you, it chance 
That the Dragon prevail, and with cleft shield, 

and lance 
Lost or shatter'd, borne down by the stress of 

the war. 
You falter and hesitate, if from afar 
I, still watching (unknown to yourself, it may 

be) 
O'er the conflict to which I conjure you, should 

see 
That my presence could rescue, support you, 

or guide 
In the hour of that need I shall be at your side, 
To warn, if you will, or incite, or control; 
And again, once again, we shall meet, soul to 

soul!'' 



LUCILE. 329 

XIV. 

The voice ceased. 

He uplifted his eyes. 

All alone 

He stood on the bare edge of dawn. She was 
gone 

Like a star, when up bay after bay of the 
night, 

Ripples in, wave on wave, the broad ocean of 
light. 

And at once, in her place, was the Sunrise! It 
rose 

In its sumptuous splendor and solemn repose. 

The supreme revelation of light. Domes of 
gold, 

Realms of rose, in the Orient! And breath- 
less, and bold. 

While the great gates of heaven roll'd back 
one by one, 

The bright herald angel stood stern in the sun ! 

Thrice holy Eospheros! Light's reign began 

In the heaven, on the earth, in the heart of 
the man. 

The dawn on the mountains ! the dawn every- 
where ! 

Light! silence! the fresh innovations of air! 

O earth, and O ether! A butterfly breeze 

Floated up, flutter'd down, and poised blithe 
on the trees. 

Through the reveling woods, o'er the sharp- 
rippled stream. 

Up the vale slow uncoiling itself out of dream, 

Around the brown meadows adown the hill- 
slope, 

22 Lacile 



330 LUCILE. 

The spirits of morning were whispering 
''Hope!'* 

XV. 

He uplifted his eyes. In the place where she 

stood 
But a moment before, and where now roird 

the flood 
Of the sunrise all golden, he seem'd to behold. 
In the young light of sunrise, an image unfold 
Of his own youth, — its ardors — its promise of 

fame — 
Its ancestral ambition; and France by the 

name 
Of his sires seem'd to call him. There, hov- 

er'd in light. 
That image aloft, o'er the shapeless and bright 
And Aurorean clouds, which themselves 

seem'd to be 
Brilliant fragments of that golden world, 

wherein he 
Had once dwelt, a native ! 

There, rooted and bound 
To the earth, stood the man, gazing at it! 

Around 
The rims of the sunrise it hover'd and shone 
Transcendent, that type of a youth that was 

gone: 
And he — as the body may yearn for the soul, 
Lo, he yearn'd to embody that image. His 

whole 
Heart arose to regain it. 

"And is it too late?" 
No! for Time is a fiction, and limits not fate. 



LUCILE. 331 

Thought alone is eternal. Time thralls it in 

vain. 
For the thought that springs upward and 

yearns to regain 
The pure source of spirit, there is no Too Late. 
As the stream to its first mountain levels, 

elate 
In the fountain arises, the spirit in him 
Arose to that image. The image waned dim 
Into heaven ; and heavenward with it, to melt 
As it melted, in day's broad expansion, he felt 
With a thrill, sweet and strange, and intense — 

awed, amazed — 
Something soar and ascend in his soul, as he 

gazed. 

CANTO VI. 
I. 

Man is born on a battle-field. Round him, to 
rend 

Or resist, the dread Powers he displaces attend, 

By the cradle which Nature, amidst the stern 
shocks 

That have shattered creation, and shapen it, 
rocks. 

He leaps with a wail into being; and lo! 

His own mother, fierce Nature herself, is his 
foe. 

Her whirlwinds are roused into wrath o'er his 
head: 

'Neath his feet roll her earthquakes: her soli- 
tudes spread 



332 LUCILE. 

To daunt him : her forces dispute his command : 

Her snows fall to freeze him : her suns burn 
to brand : 

Her seas yawn to engulf him: her rocks rise to 
crush : 

And the lion and leopard, allied, lurk to rush 

On their startled invader. 

In lone Malabar, 

Where the infinite forest spreads breathless 
and far, 

'Mid the cruel of eye and the stealthy of claw 

(Striped and spotted destroyers !) he sees, pale 
with awe. 

On the menacing edge of a fiery sky 

Grim Doorga, blue limb'd and red-handed, go 
by, 

And the first thing he worships is Terror. 

Anon, 

Still impeird by necessity hungrily on, 

He conquers the realms of his own self-reli- 
ance, 

And the last cry of fear wakes the first of de- 
fiance, 

From the serpent he crushes its poisonous soul : 

Smitten down in his path see the dead lion roll ! 

On toward Heaven the son of Alcmena strides 
high on 

The heads of the Hydra, the spoils of the lion : 

And man, conquering terror, is worshiped by 
man. 



A camp has this world been since first it be- 
gan! 



LUCILE. 333 

From his tents sweeps the roving Arabian; at 
peace, 

A mere wandering shepherd that follows the 
fleece ; 

But, warring his way through a world's des- 
tinies, 

Lo, from Delhi, from Bagdad, from Cordova, 
rise 

Domes of empiry, dower'd with science and art, 

Schools, libraries, forums, the palace, the mart! 

New realms to man's soul have been con- 

quer'd. But those 
Forthwith they are peopled for man by new 

foes! 
The stars keep their secrets, the earth hides 

her own. 
And bold must the man be that braves the Un- 
known ! 
Not a truth has to art or to science been given, 
But brows have ached for it, and souls toil'd 

and striven; 
And many have striven, and many have fail'd, 
And many died, slain by the truth they assail'd. 
But when Man has tamed Nature, asserted his 

place 
And dominion, behold ! he is brought face to 

face 
With a new foe — himself! 

Nor may man on his shield 
Ever rest, for his foe is forever a field. 
Danger ever at hand, till the armed Archangel 
Sound o'er him the trump of earth's final 

evangel. 



334 LUCILE. 



II. 



Silence straightway, stern Muse, the soft cym- 
bals of pleasure. 

Be all bronzen these numbers, and martial the 
measure ! 

Breathe, sonorously breathe, o'er the spirit in 
me 

One strain, sad and stern, of that deep Epopee 

Which thou, from the fashionless cloud of far 
time, 

Chantest lonely, when Victory, pale, and sub- 
lime 

In the light of the aureole over her head. 

Hears, and heeds .not the wound in her heart 
fresh and red. 

Blown wide by the blare of the clarion, unfold 

The shrill clanging curtains of war ! 

And behold 

A vision ! 

The antique Heraclean seats; 

And the long Black Sea billow that once bore 
those fleets, 

Which said to the winds, *'Be ye, too, Geno- 
ese ! ' ' 

And the red angry sands of the chafed Cher- 
onese ; 

And the two foes of man. War and Winter, 
allied 

Round the Armies of England and France, side 
by side 

Enduring and dying (Gaul and Briton abreast !) 

Where the towers of the North fret the skies 
of the East. 



LUCILE. 335 

III. 

Since that sunrise, which rose through the 

calm linden stems 
O'er Lucile and Eugene, in the garden at Ems, 
Through twenty-five seasons encircling the sun, 
This planet of ours on its pathway hath gone. 
And the fates that I sing of have flowed with 

the fates 
Of a world, in the red wake of war, rotmd the 

gates 
Of that doomed and heroical city, in which 
(Fire crowning the rampart, blood bathing the 

ditch!) 
At bay, fights the Russian as some hunted 

bear. 
Whom the huntsmen have hemm'd round at 

last in his lair. 

TV. 

A fang'd, arid plain, sapp'd with unground 
fire, 

Soak'd with snow, torn with shot, mash'd to 
one gory mire ! 

There Fate's iron scale hangs in horrid sus- 
pense, 

While those two famish'd ogres — the Siege, 
the Defense, 

Face to face, through a vapor frore, dismal and 
dun, 

Glare, scenting the breath of each other. 

The one 

Double-bodied, two-headed — by separate ways 

Winding, serpent-wise, nearer; the other, each 
day's 



336 LUCILE. 

Sullen toil adding size to, — concentrated, solid, 
Indefatigable — the brass-fronted, embodied, 
And audible autos gone somberly forth 
To the world from that Autocrat Will of the 
north ! 

V. 

In the dawn of a moody October, a pale 
Ghostly motionless vapor began to prevail 
Over city and camp ; like the garment of death 
Which (is formed by) the face it conceals. 

'Twas the breath 
War, yet drowsily yawning, began to suspire; 
Where through, here and there, flash 'd an eye 

of red fire, 
And closed, from some rampart beginning to 

bellow 
Hoarse challenge; replied to anon, through the 

yellow 
And sulphurous twilight: till day reel'd and 

rock'd 
And roar'd into dark. Then the midnight was 

mock'd 
With fierce apparitions. Ringed round by a 

rain 
Of red fire, and of iron, the murtherous plain 
Flared with fitful combustion; where fitfully 

fell 
Afar off the fatal, disgorged scharpenelle. 
And fired the horizon, and singed the coiPd 

gloom 
With wings of swift flame round that City of 

Doom. 



LUCILE. aS7 



VI. 



So the day — so the night ! So by night, so by 

day, 
With stern patient pathos, while time wears 

away, 
In the trench flooded through, in the wind 

where it wails. 
In the snow where it falls, in the fire where it 

hails 
Shot and shell — link by link, out of hardship 

and pain. 
Toil, sickness, endurance, is forged the bronze 

chain 
Of those terrible siege-lines! 

No change to that toil 
Save the mine's sudden leap from the treacher- 
ous soil. 
Save the midnight attack, save the groans of 

the maim'd. 
And Death's daily obolous due, whether claimed 
By man or by nature. 

VII. 

Time passes. The dumb, 
Bitter, snow-bound, and sullen November is 

come. 
And its snows have been bathed in the blood 

of the brave ; 
And many a young heart has glutted the 

grave: 
And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory, 
And those bleak heights henceforth shall be 

famous in story. 

22 



338 LUCILE. 

VIII. 

The moon, swathed in st6rm, has long set: 

through the camp 
No sound save the sentinel* s slow sullen tramp, 
The distant explosion, the wild sleety wind, 
That seems searching for something it never 

can find. 
The midnight is turning: the lamp is nigh 

spent : 
And, wounded and lone, in a desolate tent 
Lies a young British soldier whose sword . . . 

In this place, 
However, my Muse is compelled to retrace 
Her precipitious steps and revert to the past. 
The shock which had suddenly shatter* d at last 
Alfred Vargrave's fantastical holiday nature. 
Had sharply drav/n forth to his full size and 

stature 
The real man, conceal'd till that moment be- 
neath 
All he yet had appeared. From the gay broid- 

er*d sheath 
Which a man in his wrath flings aside, even so 
Leaps the keen trenchant steel summon *d forth 

by a blow. 
And thus tess or fortune gave value to life 
The wife gain*d a husband, the husband a wife, 
In that home which, though humbled and nar- 
row 'd by fate. 
Was enlarged and ennobled by love. Low 

their state. 
But large their possessions. 

Sir Ridley, forgiven 



LUCILE. 339 

By those unwittingly brought nearer heaven 
By one fraudulent act, than through all his 

sleek speech 
The hypocrite brought his own soul, safe from 

reach 
Of the law, died abroad. 

Cousin John, heart and hand^ 
Purse and person, henceforth (honest man!) 

took his stand 
By Matilda and Alfred ; guest, guardian, and: 

friend 
Of the home he both shared and assured, to 

the end. 
With his large lively love. Alfred Vargrave 

meanwhile 
Faced the world's frown, consoled by his wife's 

faithful smile 
Late in life, he began life in earnest ; and still 
With the tranquil exertion of resolute will. 
Through long, and laborious, and difficult days. 
Out of manifold failure, by wearisome ways, 
Work'd his way through the world; till at last 

he began 
(Reconciled to the work which mankind claims 

for man), 
After years of unwitnessed, unwearied en- 
deavor. 
Years impassioned yet patient, to realize ever 
More clear on the broad stream of current 

opinion 
The reflex of powers in himself — that dominion 
Which the life of one man, if his life be a trtfth, 
May assert o'er the life of mankind. Thus, his 

youth 



^0 LUCILE. 

In his manhood renew'd, fame and fortune he 

won 
Working only for home, love, and duty. 

One son 
Matilda had borne him; but scarce had the 

boy, 
With all Eton yet fresh in his full heart's frank 

joy, 
The darling of young soldier comrades, just 

glanced 
Down the glad dawn of manhood at life, when 

it chanced 
That a blight sharp and sudden was breath *d 

o'er the bloom 
Of his joyous and generous years, and the 

gloom 
Of a grief premature on their fair promise 

fell: 
No light cloud like those which, for June to 

dispel, 
Captious April engenders ; but deep as his own 
Deep nature. Meanwhile, ere I fully make 

known 
The cause of this sorrow, I track the event. 
When first a wild war-note through England 

was sent. 
He, transferring without either token or word 
To friend, parent, or comrade, a yet virgin 

sword, 
From a holiday troop, to one bound for the war. 
Had march *d forth, with his eyes that saw 

death in the star 
Whence others sought glory. Thus fighting, 

he fell 



LUCILE. 341 

On the red field of Inkerman ; found, who can 

tell 
By what miracle, breathing, though shatter'd, 

and borne 
To the rear by his comrades, pierced, bleeding 

and torn, 
Where for long days and nights, with the 

wound in his side. 
He lay, dark. 

IX. 

But a wound deeper far, undescried. 
The young heart was rankling ; for there, of a 

truth, 
In the first earnest faith of a pure pensive 

youth, 
A love large as life, deep and changeless as 

death, 
Lay ensheath'd : and that love, ever fretting its 

sheath, 
The frail scabbard of life pierced and wore 

through and through. 
There are loves in man's life for which time 

can renew 
All that time may destroy. Lives there are, 

though, in love. 
Which cling to one faith, and die with it ; nor 

move, 
Though earthquakes may shatter the shrine. 

Whence or how 
Love laid claim to this young life, it matters 

not now. 



342 LUCILE. 



Oh, is it a phantom? a dream of the night? 

A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight? 

The wind waiHng ever, with motion uncer- 
tain, 

Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tat- 
tered curtain, 

To and fro, up and down. 

But it is not the wind 

That is lifting it now: and it is not the mind 

That hath moulded that vision. 

A pale woman enters, 

As wan as the lamp's waning light, which con- 
centrates 

Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and 
dimmer, 

There, all in a slumberous and shadowy glim- 
mer, 

The sufferer sees that still form floating on. 

And feels faintly aware that he is not alone. 

She is flitting before him. She paiises. She 
stands 

By his bedside all silent. She lays her white 
hands 

On the brow of the boy. A light finger is 
pressing 

Softly, softly, the sore wounds; the hot blood- 
stain 'd dressing 

Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals 

Through the racked weary frame ; and, through- 
out it, he feels 

The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighbor- 
hood. 



LUCILE. 343 

Something smooths the toss'd pillow. Be- 
neath a gray hood 

Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are 
bent o'er him, 

And thrill through and through him. The 
sweet form before him, 

It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil 
keeping : 

A soft voice says . . . ''Sleep!" 

And he sleeps: he is sleeping. 



XI. 

He waked before dawn. Still the vision is 

there : 
Still that pale woman moves not A minis- 

t'ring care 
Meanwhile has been silently changing and 

cheering 
The aspect of all things around him. 

Revering, 
Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd 
In silence the sense of salvation. And rest 
Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he 

faintly 
Sigh'd . . . *'Say what thou art, blessed dream 

of a saintly 
And minist'ring spirit!'* 

A whisper serene 
Slid, softer than silence . . . ''The Soeur Ser- 

aphine, 
A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire 
Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy 

sire, 



344 LUCILE. 

For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the 

grave. 
Thou didst not shun death: shun not life: 'Tis 

more brave 
To live than to die. Sleep!" 

He sleeps: he is sleeping. 

XII. 

He waken'd again, when the dawn was just 

steeping 
The skies with chill splendor. And there, 

never flitting. 
Never flitting, that mercy was sitting. 
As the dawn to the darkness, so life seemed 

returning 
Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp 

yet burning, 
Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak. 

He said, 
**If thou be of the living, and not of the dead, 
Sweet minister, pour out yet further the heal- 
ing 
Of that balmy voice; if it may be, revealing 
Thy mission of mercy; whence art thou?'* 

**0 son 
Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not ! One 
Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead: 
To thee, and to others, alive yeV . . . she 

said . . . 
**So long as there liveth the poor gift in me 
Of this ministration ; to them, and to thee, 
Dead in all things beside. A French Nun, 

whose vocation 
Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation. 



LUCILE. 345 

Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe, 
There her land! there her kindred!" 

She bent down to smooth 
The hot pillow; and added . . . **Yet more 

than another. 
Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy 

mother, 
I know them — I know them." 

**Oh, can it be? yon! 
My dearest dear father! my mother! you knew, 
You know them?" 

She bowed, half-averting her head 
In silence. 

He brokenly, timidly said, 
**Do they know I am thus?" 

**Hush!" . . . she smiled, as she drew 
From her bosom two letters : and — can it be 

true? 
That beloved and familiar writing ! 

He burst 
Into tears . . . "My poor mother — my father! 

the worst 
Will have reached them!" 

**No, no!" she exclaimed, with a smile, 
*'They know you are living; they know that 

meanwhile 
I am watching beside you. Young soldier, 

weep not!" 
But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot 
Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is 

press 'd. 
There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into 
rest: 



846 LUCILE. 

And he hears, as it were between smiling and 

weeping. 
The calm voice say . . . '*Sleep!*' 

And he sleeps, he is sleeping. 

XIII. 

And day follow 'd day. And, as wave followed 

wave. 
With the tide, day by day, life, reissuing, drave 
Through that young hardy frame novel cur- 
rents of health. 
Yet some strange obstruction, which life's 

health by stealth 
Seemed to cherish, impeded life's progress. 

And still 
A feebleness, less of the frame than the will, 
Clung about the sick man: hid and harbor 'd 

within 
The sad hollow eyes: pinch'd the cheek pale 

and thin : 
And clothed the wan fingers with languor. 

And there, 
Day by day, night by night, unremitting in 

care, 
Unwearied in watching, so cheerful of mien. 
And so gentle of hand sat the Soeur Seraphine ! 

XIV. 

A strange woman truly! not young; yet her 

face 
Wan and worn as it was, bore about it the trace 
Of a beauty which time could not ruin. For 

the whole 



LUCILE. 347 

Quiet cheek, youth's lost bloom left transpar- 
ent, the soul 

Seemed to fill with its own light, like some 
sunny fountain 

Everlastingly fed from far off the mountain 

That pours, in a garden deserted, its streams, 

And all the more lovely for loneliness seems. 

So that, watching that face, you would scarce 
pause to guess 

The years which its calm careworn lines might 
express, 

Feeling only what suffering with these must 
have past 

To have perfected there so much sweetness at 
last. 



XV. 

Thus, one bronzen evening, when day had put 

out 
His brie/ thrifty fires, and the wind was about, 
The nun, watchful still by the boy, on his own 
Laid a firm quiet hand, and the deep tender 

tone 
Of her voice moved the silence. 

She said . . . **I have heal'd 
These wounds of the body. Why hast thou 

concealed, 
Young soldier, that yet open wound in the 

heart? 
Wilt thou trust no hand near it?*' 

He winced, v/ith a start 
As one that is suddenly touched on the spot 
From which every nerve derives suffering. 



348 LUCILE. 

*'What? 

Lies my heart, then, so bare?'* he moaned bit- 
terly. 

''Nay," 

With compassionate accents she hastened to 
say, 

*'Do you think that these eyes are with sorrow, 
young man. 

So all unfamiliar, indeed, as to scan Her fea- 
tures yet know them not? 

''Oh, was it spoken, 

'Go ye forth, heal the sick, lift the low, bind 
the broken!* 

Of the body alone? is our mission, then, done, 

When we leave the bruised hearts, if we bind 
the bruised bone? 

Nay, is not the mission of mercy twofold? 

Whence twofold, perchance, are the power, 
that we hold 

To fulfill it, of Heaven ! For Heaven doth still 

To us Sisters, it may be, who seek it, send 
skill 

Won from long intercourse with affliction, and 
art 

Help'd of Heaven, to bind up the broken of 
heart. 

Trust to me!** (His two feeble hands in her 
own 

She drew gently.) "Trust to me!** (she said, 
with soft tone) : 

"I am not so dead in remembrance to all 

I have died to in this world, but what I re- 
call 

Enough of its sorrow, enough of its trial, 



LUCILE. 349 

To grieve for both — save from both haply! 

The dial 
Receives many shades, and each points to the 

sun, 
The shadows are many, the sunlight is one. 
Life's sorrows still fluctuate: God's love does 

not. 
And His love is unchanged, when it changes 

our lot. 
Looking up to this light, which is common to 

all, 
And down to these shadows, on each side, that 

fall 
In time's silent circle, so various for each, 
Is it nothing to know that they never can 

reach 
So far, but what light lies beyond them for- 
ever? 
Trust to me ! Oh, if this hour I endeavor 
To trace the shade creeping across the young 

life 
Which, in prayer till* this hour, I have watch 'd 

through its strife 
With the shadow of death, 'tis with this faith 

alone, 
That, in tracing the shade, I shall find out the 

sun. 
Trust to me!" 

She paused : he was weeping. Small need 
Of added appeal, or entreaty, indeed. 
Had those gentle accents to win from his pale 
And parched, trembling lips, as it rose, the 

brief tale 
Of a life's early sorrow. The story is old, 



350 LUCILE. 

And in words few as may be shall straightway 
be told. 

XVI. 

A few years ago, ere the fair form of Peace 
Was driven from Europe, a young girl — the 

niece 
Of a French noble, leaving an old Norman pile 
By the wild northern seas, came to dwell for 

awhile 
With a lady allied to her race — an old dame 
Of a threefold legitimate virtue, and name. 
In the Faubourg Saint Germain. 

Upon that fair child. 
From childhood, nor father nor mother had 

smiled. 
One uncle their place in her life had supplied, 
And their place in her heart : she had grown at 

his side. 
And under his roof -tree, and in his regard. 
From childhood to girlhood. 

This fair orphan ward 
Seem*d the sole human creature that lived in 

the heart 
Of that stern rigid man, or whose smile could 

impart 
One ray of response to the eyes which, above 
Her fair infant forehead, look'd down with a 

love 
That seem'd almost stern, so intense was its 

chill 
Lofty stillness, like sunlight on some lonely 

hill 
Which is colder and stiller than sunlight else- 
where. 



LUCILE. 351 

Grass grew in the court-yard; the chambers 

were bare 
In that ancient mansion ; when first the stern 

tread 
Of its owner awakened their echoes long dead: 
Bringing with him this infant (the child of a 

brother), 
Whom, dying, the hands of a desolate mother 
Had placed on his bosom. 'Twas said — right 

or wrong — 
That, in the lone mansion, left tenantless long 
To which, as a stranger, its lord now returned, 
In years yet recalled, through loud midnights 

had burn*d 
The light of wild orgies. Be that false or 

true. 
Slow and sad was the footstep which now wan- 
der 'd rough 
Those desolate chambers ; and calm and severe 
Was the life of their inmate. 

Men now saw appear 
Every morn at the mass that firm sorrowful 

face 
Which seem*d to lock up in a cold iron case 
Tears hardened to crystal. Yet harsh if he 

were 
His severity seem*d to be trebly severe 
In the rule of his own rigid life, which, at least, 
Was benignant to others. The poor parish 

priest. 
Who lived on his largess, his piety praised. 
The peasant was fed, and the chapel was 

raised, 
And the cottage was built, by his liberal hand. 



352 LUCILE. 

Yet he seem'd in the midst of his good deeds 

to stand 
A lone, and unloved, and unlovable man. 
There appear'd some inscrutable flow in the 

plan 
Of his life, that love fail'd to pass over. 

That child 
Alone did not fear him, nor shrink from him ; 

smiled 
To his frown, and dispell' d it. 

The sweet sportive elf 
Seem'd the type of some joy lost, and miss'd, 

in himself. 
Ever welcome he suffered her glad face to glide 
In no hours when to others his door was de- 
nied: 
And many a time with a mute moody look 
He would watch heir at prattle and play, like a 

brook 
Whose babble disturbs not the quietest spot, 
But soothes us because we need answer it 

not. 

But few years had passed o*er that childhood 

before 
A change came among them. A letter, which 

bore 
Sudden consequence with it, one morning was 

placed 
In the hands of the lord of the chateau. He 

paced 
To and fro in his chamber a whole night alone 
After reading that letter. At dawn he was 

gone. 



LUCILE. 353 

.Weeks passed. When he came back again he 

returned 
With a tall ancient dame, from whose lips the 

child learned 
That they were of the same race and name. 

With a face 
Sad and anxious, to this withered stock of the 

race 
He confided the orphan, and left them alone 
In the old lonely house. 

In a few days 'twas known. 
To the angry surprise of half Paris, that one 
Of the chiefs of that party which, still clinging 

on 
To the banner that bears the white lilies of 

France, 
Will fight 'neath no other, nor yet for the 

chance 
Of restoring their own, had renounced the 

watch-word 
And the creed of his youth in unsheathing his 

sword. 
For a Fatherland father'd no more (such is 

fate!) 
By legitimate parents. 

And meanwhile elate 
And in nowise disturbed by what Paris might 

say. 
The new soldier thus wrote to a frit^nd far 

away : — 
**To the life of inaction farewell! After all, 
Creeds the oldest may crumble, and dynasties 

fall. 
But the sole grand Legitimac}'' will endure, 

23 Lucile 



354 LUCILE. 

In whatever makes death noble, life strong and 

pure. 
Freedom ! action ! . . . the desert to breathe in 

— the lance 
Of the Arab to follow ! I go, Vive la France !" 

Few and rare were the meetings henceforth, as 

years fled, 
'Twixt the child and the soldier. The two 

women led 
Lone lives in the lone house. Meanwhile the 

child grew 
Into girlhood; and, like a sunbeam, sliding 

through 
Her green quiet years, changed by gentle de- 
grees 
To the loveliest vision of youth a youth sees 
In his loveliest fancies: as pure as a pearl, 
And as perfect : a noble and innocent girl, 
With eighteen summers dissolved in the light 
Of her lovely and lovable eyes, soft and bright! 
Then her guardian wrote to the dame, . . . 

''Let Constance 
Go with you to Paris. I trust that in France 
I may be ere the close of the year. I confide 
My life's treasure to you. Let her see, at your 

side, 
The world which we live in.'' 

To Paris then came 
Constance to abide with that old stately dame 
In that old stately Faubourg. 

The young Englishman 
Thus met her. 'Twas there their acquaintance 

began, 



LUCILE. 355 

There it closed. That old miracle — Love-at- 
first-sight 

Needs no explanations. The heart reads aright 

Its destin^T- sometimes. His love neither chid- 
den 

Nor check 'd, the young soldier was graciously 
bidden 

An habitual guest to that house by the dame. 

His own candid graces, the world-honor'd 
name 

Of his father (in him not dishonored) were both 

Fair titles to favor. His love, nothing loath, 

The old lady observed, was return 'd by Con- 
stance. 

And as the child *s uncle his absence from 
France 

Yet prolonged, she (thus easing long self-grat- 
ulation) 

Wrote to him a lengthened and moving narra- 
tion 

Of the graces and gifts of the young English 
wooer : 

His father's fair fame; the boy's deference to 
her; 

His love for Constance, — unaffected, sincere; 

And the girl's love for him, read by her in 
those clear 

Limpid eyes ; then the pleasure with which she 
awaited 

Her cousin's approval of all she had stated. 

At length from that cousin an answer there 
came, 

Brief, stern; such as stunn'd and astonish'd 
the dame. 



356 LUCILE. 

"Let Constance leave Paris with you on the 

day 
You receive this. Until my return she may 

stay 
At her convent awhile. If my niece wishes 

ever 
To behold me again, understand, she will nevei' 
Wed that man. 
"You have broken faith with me. Farewell!'* 

No appeal from that sentence. 

It needs not to tell 
The tears of Constance, nor the grief of her 

lover : 
The dream they had laid out their lives in was 

over. 
Bravely strove the young soldier to look in the 

face 
Of a life, where invisible hands seemed to trace 
O'er the threshold, these words . . . "Hope 

no more!" 

Unreturn'd 
Had his love been, the strong manful heart 

would have spurn'd 
That weakness which suffers a woman to lie 
At the roots of man's life, like a canker, and 

dry, 
And wither the sap of life's purpose. But 

there 
Lay the bitterer part of the pain! Could he 

dare 
To forget he was loved? that he grieved not 

alone? 
Recording a love that drew sorrow upon 



LUCILE. 357 

The woman he loved, for himself dare he seek 
Surcease to that sorrow, which thus held him 

weak, 
Beat him down, and destroy'd him? 

News reach 'd him, indeed, 
Through a comrade, who brought him a letter 

to read 
From the dame who had care of Constance (it 

was one 
To whom, when at Paris, the boy had been 

known, 
A Frenchman, and friend of the Faubourg), 

which said 
That Constance, although never a murmur be- 
tray 'd 
What she suffer'd, in silence grew paler each 

day. 
And seem'd visibly drooping and dying away. 
It was then he sought death. 

XVII. 

Thus the tale ends, 'Twas told 
With such broken, passionate words, as unfold. 
In glimpses alone, a coil'd grief. Through 

each pause 
Of its fitful recital, in raw gusty flaws. 
The rain shook the canvas, unheeded: aloof, 
And unheeded, the night- wind around the tent- 
roof 
At intervals wirbled. And when all was said. 
The sick man, exhausted, drooped backward 

his head. 
And fell into a feverish slumber. 

Long while 



358 LUCILE. 

Sat the Soeur Seraphine, in deep thought. The 

still smile 
That was wont, angel- wise, to inhabit her face 
And make it like heaven, was fled from its 

place 
In her eyes, on her lips; and a deep sadness 

there 
Seem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and 

care, 
As low to herself she sigh'd . . . 

*'Hath it, Eugene, 
Been so long, then, the struggle? . . . and yet, 

all in vain ! 
Najr, not all in vain! Shall the world gain a 

man, 
And yet heaven lose a soul? Have I done all 

I can? 
Soul to soul, did he say? Soul to soul, be it so! 
And then — soul of mine, whither? whither? 

XVIII. 

Large, slow, 
Silent tears in those deep eyes ascended, and 

fell. 
''Here, at least, I have fail'd not" . . . she 

mused . . . '*this is well!" 
She drew from her bosom two letters. 

In one, 
A mother's heart, wild with alarm for her son, 
Breathed bitterly forth its despairing appeal. 
**The pledge of a love owed to thee, O Lucile! 
The hope of a home saved by thee — of a heart 
Which hath never since then (thrice endeared 

as thou art !) 



LUCILE. 359 

Ceased to bless thee, to pray for thee, save! 

. . . save my son ! 
And if not" . . . the letter went brokenly on, 
''Heaven help us!" 

Then followed, from Alfred, a few 
Blotted heart-broken pages. He mournfully 

drew 
With pathos the picture of that earnest youth, 
So unlike his own ; how in beauty and truth 
He had nurtured that nature, so simple and 

brave ! . 
And how he had striven his son *s youth to save 
From the errors so sadly redeemed in his*own. 
And so deeply repented : how thus, in that son, 
In whose youth he had garner'd his age, he 

hadseem'd 
To be blessed by a pledge that the past was re- 
deemed 
And forgiven. He bitterly went on to speak 
Of the boy's baffled love; in which fate seem'd 

to break 
Unawares on his dreams with retributive pain, 
And the ghosts of the past rose to scourge back 

again 
The hopes of the future. To sue for consent 
Pride forbade: and the hope his old foe might 

relent 
Experience rejected . . . ** My life for the boy's!" 
(He exclaim 'd) ; *'for I die with my son, if he 

dies! 
Lucile! Heaven bless you for all you have 

done! 
Save him, save him, Lucile ! save my son ! save 

my son!" 



360 LUCILE. 



XIX. 



*'Ay!'' murmur' d the Soeur Seraphine . . . 

** heart to heart! 
There, at least, I have fail'd not! FulfiU'd is 

my part? 
Accomplished my mission? One act crowns 

the whole. 
Do I linger? Nay, be it so, then! . . . Soul to 

soul!" 
She knelt down and pray'd. Still the boy 

slumber'd on, 
Dawn broke. The pale num from the bedside 

was gone. 

XX. 

Meanwhile, *mid his aides-de-camp, busily bent 
O'er the daily reports, in his well-order'd tent 
There sits a French General — bronzed by the 

sun 
And sear'd by the sands of Algeria. One 
Who forth from the wars of the wild Kabylee 
Had strangely and rapidly risen to be 
The idol, the darling, the dream and the 

star 
Of the younger French chivalry; daring in 

war. 
And wary in council. He entered, indeed. 
Late in life (and discarding his Bourbonite 

creed) 
The Army of France : and had risen, in part 
From a singular aptitude proved for the art 
Of that wild desert warfare of ambush, sur- 
prise, 



LUCILE. 861 

And stratagem, which to the French camp sup- 
plies 

Its subtlest intelligence ; partly from chance ; 

Partly, too, from a name and position which 
France 

Was proud to put forward; but mainly, in 
fact. 

From the prudence to plan, and the daring to 
act. 

In frequent emergencies startlingly shown 

To the rank which he now held, — intrepidly 
won 

With many a wound, trench 'd in many a scar, 

From fierce Milianah and Sidi-Sakhdar. 

XXI. 

All within, and without, that warm tent seems 

to bear 
Smiling token of provident order and care. 
All about, a well-fed, well-clad soldiery stands 
In groups round the music of mirth-breathing 

bands. 
In and out of the tent, all day long, to and fro, 
The messengers come and the messengers go, 
Upon missions of mercy, or errands of toil : 
To report how the sapper contends with the 

soil 
In the terrible trench, how the sick man is 

faring 
In the hospital tent : and, combining, compar- 
ing, 
Constructing, within moves the brain of one 

man, 
Moving alL 

24 Lacile 



362 LUCILE. 

He is bending his brow o'er some plan 
For the hospital service, wise, skillful, hu- 
mane. 
The officer standing behind him is fain 
To refer to the angel solicitous cares 
Of the Sisters of Charity: one he declares 
To be known through the camp as a seraph of 

grace ; 
He has seen, all have seen her indeed, in each 

place 
Where suffering is seen, silent, active — the 

Soeur . . . 
Soeur . . . how do they call her? 

**Ay, truly, of her 
I have heard much," the General, musing, re- 
plies; 
**And we owe her already (unless rumor lies) 
The lives of not few of our bravest. You 

mean . . . 
Ay, how do they call her? . . . the — Soeur — 

Seraphine 
(Is it not so?). I rarely forget names once 

heard. 
*'Yes; the Soeur Seraphine. Her I meant." 

*'On my word, 
I have much wish'd to see her. I fancy I trace, 
In some facts traced to her, something more 

than the grace 
Of an angel; I mean an acute human mind. 
Ingenious, constructive, intelligent. Find, 
And, if possible, let her come to me. We shall, 
I think, aid each other.'* 

'' Oui, mon General: 
I believe she has lately obtained the permission 



LUCILE. 363 

To tend some sick man in the Second Division 
Of our Ally : they say a relation. ' ' 

**Ay, so? 
A relation?" 

** 'Tis said so.'' 

**The name do you know?" 
^^Non^ mon General,'" 

While they spoke yet, there went 
A murmur and stir round the door of the tent. 
V*A Sister of Charity craves, in a case 
Of urgent and serious importance, the grace 
Of brief private speech with the General 

there. 
Will the General speak with her?'* 

'*Bid her declare 
Her mission." 

**She will not. She craves to be seen 
And be heard." 

**Well, her name, then?" 

**The Soeur Seraphine. " 
**Clear the tent. She may enrt;er. " 

X3^1I. 

The tent has been clear'd, 
The chieftain stroked moodily somewhat his 

beard, 
A sable long silver'd: and press'd down his 

brow 
On his hand, heavy vein'd. All his counte- 
nance, now 
Unwitnessed, at once fell dejected, and dreary. 
As a curtain let fall by a hand that's grown 
weary, 



364 LUCILE. 

Into puckers and folds. From his lips, unre- 

press'd, 
Steals th' impatient quick sigh which reveals 

in man's breast 
A conflict conceal' d, an experience at strife 
With itself, — the vex'd heart's passing protest 

on life. 
He turn'd to his papers. He heard the light 

tread 
Of a faint foot behind him: and, lifting his 

head, 
Said, ''Sit, Holy Sister! your worth is well 

known 
To the hearts of our soldiers; nor less to my 

own. 
I have much wish'd to see you. I owe you 

some thanks : 
In the name of all those you have saved to our 

ranks 
I record them. Sit! Now, then, your mis- 
sion?" 

The nun 
Paused silent. The General eyed her anon 
More keenly. His aspect grew troubled. A 

change 
Darken'd over his features. He mutter'd . . . 

''Strange! strange! 
Any face should so strongly remind me of her! 
Fool! again the delirium, the dream! does it 

stir? 
Does it move as of old? Psha! 

"Sit, Sister! I wait 
Your answer, my time halts but hurriedly. 

State 



LUCILE. 365 

The cause why you seek me?*' 

*'The cause? ay, the cause!*' 
She vaguely repeated. Then, after a pause, — 
As one who, awaked unawares, would put back 
The sleep that forever returns in the track 
Of dreams which, though scared and dispersed, 

not the less 
Settle back to faint eyelids that yield *neath 

their stress. 
Like doves to a penthouse, — a movement she 

made, 
Less toward him than away from herself; 

droop 'd her head 
And folded her hands on her bosom; long, 

spare. 
Fatigued, mournful hands ! Not a stream of 

stray hair 
Escaped her pale bands ; scarce more pale than 

the face 
Which they bound and lock'd up in a rigid 

white case. 
She fix'd her eyes on him. There crept a 

vague awe 
0*er his sense, such as ghosts cast 

''Eugene de Luvois, 
The cause which recalls me again to your 

side. 
Is a promise that rests unfulfiird," she replied. 
'*I come to fulfill it." 

He sprang from the place 
Where he sat, pressed his hand, as in doubt, 

o'er his face; 
And, cautiously feeling each step o*er the 

ground 



366 LUCILE. 

That he trod on (as one who walks fearing the 

sound 
Of his footstep may startle and scare out of 

sight 
Some strange sleeping creature on which he 

would 'light 
Unawares), crept toward her; one heavy hand 

laid 
On her shoulder in silence; bent o'er her his 

head, 
Searched her face with a long look of troubled 

appeal 
Against doubt; stagger 'd backward, and mur- 
mured . . . '^Lucile? 
Thus we meet then? . . . here! . . . thus?" 
''Soul to soul, ay, Eugene, 
As I pledged you my word that we should 

meet again. 
Dead, ..." she murmur' d, **long dead! all 

that lived in our lives — 
Thine and mine — saving that which ev'n life's 

self survives. 
The soul. 'Tis my soul seeks thine own. 

What may reach 
From my life to thy life (so wide each from 

each !) 
Save the soul to the soul? To thy soul I would 

speak. 
May I do so?" 

He said (work'd and white was his cheek J 
As he raised it), *' Speak to me!" : 

Deep, tender, serene, 



LUCILE. 367 

And sad was the gaze which the Soeur Sera- 

phine 
Held on him. She spoke. 

XXIII. 

As some minstrel may fling, 
Preluding the music yet music in each string, 
A swift hand athwart the blush 'd heart of the 

whole, 
Seeking which note most fitly must first move 

the soul ; 
And, leaving untroubled the deep chords 

below, 
Move pathetic in numbers remote ; — even so 
The voice which was moving the heart of that 

man 
Far away from its yet voiceless purpose began, 
Far away in the pathos remote of the past ; 
Until, through her words, rose before him, at 

last, 
Bright and dark in their beauty, the hopes that 

were gone 
Unaccomplish'd from life. 

He was mute. 

XXIV. 

She went on.. 
And still further down the dim past did she 

lead 
Each yielding remembrance, far, far off, to 

feed 
'Mid the pastures of youth, in the twilight of 

hope. 
And the valleys of boyhood, the fresh-flower'd 

blope 



368 LUCILE. 

Of life's dawning land ! 

'Tis the heart of a boy, 
With its indistinct, passionate prescience of 

joy! 
The unproved desire — the unaim'd aspiration — 
The deep conscious life that forestalls consum- 
mation ; 
With ever a fitting delight — one arm's length 
In advance of the august inward impulse 

The strength 
Of the spirit which troubles the seed in the 

sand 
With the birth of the palm-tree! Let ages 

expand 
The glorious creature ! The ages lie shut 
(Safe, see!) in the seed, at time's signal to put 
Forth their beauty and power, leaf by leaf, 

layer on layer, 
Till the palm strikes the sun, and stands broad 

in blue air. 
So the palm in the palm-seed! so, slowly — so 

wrought 
Year by year unperceived, hope on hope, 

thought by thought, 
Trace the growth of the man from its germ in 

the boy. 
Ah, but Nature, that nurtures, may also 

destroy! 
Charm the wind and the sun, lest some chance 

intervene! 
While the leaf's in the bud, while the stem's 

in the green, 
A light bird bends the branch, a light breeze 

breaks the bough, 



LUCILE. 309 

Which, if spared by the light breeze, the light 

bird, may grow 
To baffie the tempest, and rock the high nest, 
And take both the bird and the breeze to its 

breast. 
Shall we save a whole forest in sparing one 

seed? 
Save the man in the boy? in the thotight save 

the deed? 
Let the whirlwind uproot the grown tree, if it 

can! 
Save the seed from the north wind. So let 

the grown man 
Face our fate. Spare the man-seed in youth. 

He was dumb. 
She went one step further. 

XXV. 

Lo ! manhood is come. 
And love, the wild song-bird, hath flown to the 

tree, 
And the whirlwind comes after. Now prove 

we, and see : 
What shade from the leaf? what support from 

the branch? 
Spreads the leaf broad and fair? holds the 

bough strong and stanch? 
There, he saw himself — dark, as he stood on 

that night, 
The last when they met and they parted: a 

sight 
For heaven to mourn o*er, for hell to rejoice! 
An ineffable tenderness troubled her voice : 
It grew weak, and a sigh broke it through. 

24 



370 LUCILE. 

Then he said 
(Never looking at her, never lifting his head, 
As though, at his feet, there lay visibly hurrd 
Those fragments), '*It was not a love, 'twas a 

world, 
'Twas a life that lay ruin'd, Lucile!'* 

XXVI. 

She went on : 
**So be it! Perish Babel, arise Babylon! 
From ruins like these rise the fanes that shall 

last, 
And to build up the future heaven shatters the 

past/'* 
**Ay, " he moodily murmur'd, ** and who cares 

to scan 
The heart's perish 'd world gains a man? 
From the past to the present, though late, I 

appeal ; 
To the nun Seraphine, from the woman 

Lucile!" 

XXVII. 

Lucile! . . . the old name — the old self! 

silenced long : 
Heard once more ! felt once more ! 

As some soul to the throng 
Of invisible spirits admitted, baptized 
By death to a new name and nature — surprised 
'Mid the songs of the seraphs, hears faintly, 

and far, 
Some voice from the earth, left below a dim 

star, 
Calling to her forlornly; and sadd'ning the 

psalms 



LUCILE. 371 

Of the aikgels, and piercing the Paradise 

palms!) 
The name borne *mid earthly beloveds on 

earth 
Sigh'd above some lone grave in the land of 

her birth; — 
So that one word . . . Lucile! . . . stirr'd 

the Soeur Seraphine, 
For a moment. Anon she resumed her serene 
And concentrated calm. 

**Let the Ntm, then, retrace 
The life of the soldier!** . . . she said, with a 

face 
That glow*d, gladdening her words. 

**To the present I come: 
Leave the Past!'* 

There her voice rose, and seem'd as 
when some 
Pale Priestess proclaims from her temple the 

praise 
Of her hero whose brows she is crowning with 

bays. 
Step by step did she follow his path from the 

place 
Where their two paths diverged. Year by year 

did she trace 
(Familiar with all) his, the soldier's existence. 
Her words were of trial, endurance, resistance; 
Of the leagner around this besieged world of 

ours : 
And the same sentinels that ascend the same 

towers 
And report the same foes, the same fears, the 

same strife, 



37» LUCILE. 

Waged alike to the limits of each human life. 
She went on to speak of the lone moody lord, 
Shnt up in his lone moody halls: every word 
Held the weight of a tear: she recorded the 

good 
He had patiently wrought through a whole 

neighborhood; 
And the blessing that lived on the lips of the 

poor, 
By the peasant's hearthstone, or the cottager's 

door. 
There she paused: and her accents seem'd 

dipped in the hue 
Of his own somber heart, as the picture she 

drew 
Of the poor, proud, sad spirit, rejecting love's 

wages, 
Yet working love's work; reading backwards 

life's pages 
For penance ; and stubbornly, many a time, 
Both missing the moral, and marring the 

rhyme. 
Then she spoke of the soldier! . . . the man's 

work and fame, 
The pride of a nation, a world's just acclaim, 
Life's inward approval! 

XXVIII. 

Her voice reach 'd kis heart, 
And sani lower. She spoke of herself : how, 

apart 
And unseen, — far away, — she had watch'd, 

year by year. 
With how many a blessing, how many a tear, 



LUCILE. 373 

And how many a prayer, every stage in the 

strife : 
Guess'd the thought in the deed: traced the 

love in the life : 
Bless'd the man in the man's work! 

'*Thy work . . . oh, not mine! 
Thine, Lucile!'* ... he exclaim'd . . . ''all 

the worth of it thine 
If worth there be in it!'' 

Her answer convey'd 
His reward, and her own : joy that cannot be 

said 
Alone by the voice . . . eyes — face — spoke 

silently : 
All the woman, one grateful emotion ! 

And she 
A poor Sister of Charity! hers a life spent 
In one silent effort for others! . . . 

She bent 
Her divine face above him, and fill'd up his 

heart 
With the look that glow'd from it. 

Then slow, with soft art, 
Fix'd her aim, and moved to it. 

XXIX. 

He, the soldier humane, 

He, the hero; whose heart hid in glory the 
pain 

Of a youth disappointed; whose life had made 
known 

The value of man's life! . . . that youth over- 
thrown 

And retrieved, had it left him no pity for youth 



374 LUCILE. 

In another? his own life of strenuous truth 
Accomplish 'd in act, had it taught him no care 
For the life of another? ... oh no! every- 
where 
In the camp which she moved through, she 

came face to face 
With some noble token, some generous trace 
Of his active humanity . . . 

**Well,*' he replied, 
**If itbe so?" 

**I come from the solemn bedside 
Of a man that is dying,*' she said. *' While we 

speak, 
A life is in jeopardy.** 

'* Quick then! you seek 
Aid or medicine, or what?'* 

** *Tis not needed, ** she said 
** Medicine? yes, for the mind! *Tisa heart that 

needs aid ! 
You, Eugene de Luvois, you (and you only) 

can 
Save the life of this man. Will you save it?** 

*' What man? 
How? . . . where? . . . can you ask?'* 

She went rapidly on 
To her object in brief vivid words . . . The 

young son 
Of Matilda and Alfred — the boy lying there 
Half a mile from that tent door — the father's 

despair, 
The mother's deep anguish — the pride of the 

boy 
In the father — the father*s one hope and one 

joy 



LUCILE. 375 

In the son: — the son now — wounded, dying! 

She told 
Of the father's stern struggle with life: the 

boy's bold, 
Pure, and beautiful nature : the fair life before 

him 
If that life were but spared . . . yet a word 

might restore him ! 
The boy's broken love for the niece of Eugene ! 
Its pathos: the girl's love for him; how, half 

slain 
In his tent she had found him: won from him 

the tale; 
Sought to nurse back his life ; found her efforts 

still fail ; 
Beaten back by a love that was stronger than 

life; 
Of how bravely till then he had stood in that 

strife 
Wherein England and France in their best 

blood, at last, 
Had bathed from remembrance the wounds of 

the past. 
And shall nations be nobler than men? Are 

not great 
Men the models of nations? For what is a state 
But the many's confused imitation of one? 
Shall he, the fair hero of France, on the son 
Of his ally seek vengeance, destroying per- 
chance 
An innocent life, — here, when England and 

France 
Have forgiven the sins of their fathers of 

yore. 



376 LUCILE. 

And baptized a new hope in their sons' recent 

gore? 
She went on to tell how the boy had clung still 
To life, for the sake of life's uses, until 
From his weak hands the strong effort dropp'd, 

stricken down 
By the news that the heart of Constance, lies 

his own, 
Was breaking beneath . . . 

But there **Hold!'' he exclaim'd, 
Interrupting, "forbear!'' . . . his whole face 

was inflamed 
With the heart's swarthy thunder which yet, 

while she spoke. 
Had been gathering silent — at last the storm 

broke 
In grief or in wrath . . . 

** 'Tis to him, then," he cried, . . . 
Checking suddenly short the tumultuous 

stride, 
* * That I owe these late greetings — for him you 

are here — 
For his sake you seek me — for him, it is clear, 
You have deign 'd at the last to bethink you 

again 
Of this long forgotten existence!" 

''Eugene!" 
**Ha! fool that I was!" ... he went on, . . . 

**and just now. 
While you spoke yet, my heart was beginning 

to grow 
Almost boyish again, almost sure of one friend! 
Yet this was the meaning of all — this the end ! 
Be it so ! There's a sort of slow justice (admit !). 



LUCILE. 377 

In this — that the word that man's finger hath 
writ 

In fire on my heart, I return him at last. 

Let him learn that word — Never!" 

**Ah, still to the past 

Must the present be vassal?" she said. **In 
the hour 

We last parted I urged you to put forth the 
power 

Which I felt to be yours, in the conquest of life. 

Yours, the promise to strive: mine, — to watch 
o'er the strife. 

I foresaw you would conquer; you have con- 
quer 'd much. 

Much, indeed, that is noble! I hail it as such, 

And am here to record and applaud it. I saw 

Not the less in your nature, Eugene de Luvois, 

One peril — one point where I feared you would 
fail 

To subdue that worst foe which a man can as- 
sail, — 

Himself: and I promised that, if I should see 

My champion once falter, or bend the brave 
knee. 

That moment would bring me again to his side. 

That moment is come ! for that peril was pride. 

And you falter. I plead for yourself, and one 
another. 

For that gentle child without father or mother. 

To whom you are both. I plead, soldier of 
France, 

For your own nobler nature — and plead for 
Constance!" 

At the sound of that name he averted his head. 



378 LUCILE. 

"Constance! . . . Ay, she enter *d my lone 

life" (he said,) 
"When its sun was long set ; and hung over its 

night 
Her own starry childhood. I have but that 

light, 
In the midst of much darkness! Who names 

me but she 
With titles of love? and what rests there for me 
In the silence of age save the voice of that 

child? 
The child of my' own better life, undefiled! 
My creature, carved out of my heart of hearts!" 

"Say," 
Said the Soeur Seraphine — "are you able to lay 
Your hand as a knight on your heart as a man 
And swear that, whatever may happen, 3^ou can 
Feel assured for the life you thus cherish?" 

"How so?" 
He looked up. "If the boy should die thus?'' 

"Yes, I know 
What your look would imply . . . this sleek 

stranger forsooth ! 
Because on his cheek was the red rose of youth 
The heart of my niece must break for it!" 

She cried. 
"Nay, but hear me yet further!" 

With slow heavy stride. 
Unheeding her words, he was pacing the tent. 
He was muttering low to himself as he went. 
"Ay, these young things lie safe in our heart 

just so long 
As their wings are m growing ; and when these 

are strong 



LUCILE. 379 

They break it, and farewell ! the bird flies ! " . . . 

The nun 
Laid her hand on the soldier, and murmur 'd, 

*^The sun 
Is descending, life fleets while we talk thus! 

on, yet 
Let this day upon one final victory set. 
And complete a life's conquest!" 

He said, *' Understand! 
If Constance wed the son of this man, by whose 

hand 
My heart hath been robb'd, she is lost to my 

life! 
Can her home be my home? Can I claim in the 

wife 
Of that man's son the child of my age? At her 

side 
Shall he stand on my hearth? Shall I sue to 

the bride 
Of . . . enough! 

''Ah, and you immemorial halls 
Of my Norman forefathers, whose shadow yet 

falls 
On my fancy, and fuses hope, memory, past, 
Present, — all, in one silence! old trees to the 

blast 
Of the North sea repeating the tale of old days, 
Nevermore, nevermore in the wild bosky ways 
Shall I hear through your umbrage ancestral 

the wind 
Prophesy as of yore, when it shook the deep 

mind 
Of my boyhood, with whispers from out the far 

years 



380 LUCILE. 

Of love, fame, the raptures life cools down with 

tears ! 
Henceforth shall the tread of a Vargrave alone 
Rouse your echoes?" 

'*0 think not,*' she said, **of the son 
Of the man whom unjustly you hate; only 

think 
Of this young human creature, that cries from 

the brink 
Of a grave to your mercy! 

'* Recall your own words 
(Words my memory mournfully ever records!) 
How with love may be wreck'd a whole life! 

then, Eugene, 
Look with me (still those words in our ears !) 

once again 
At this young soldier sinking from life here — 

dragg'd down 
By the weight of the love in his heart : no re- 
nown. 
No fame comforts him! nations shout not 

above 
The lone grave down to which he is bearing the 

love 
Which life has rejected! Will you stand apart? 
You, with such a love's memory deep in your 

heart. 
You the hero, whose life hath perchance been 

led on 
Through the deeds it hath wrought to the fame 

It hath won. 
By recalling the visions and dreams of a youth, 
Such as lies at your door now : who have but, 

in truth. 



LUCILE. 381 

To stretch forth a hand, to speak only one 

word 
And by that work yoti rescue a life ! ' ' 

He was stirr'd. 
Still he sought to put from him the cup; bow'd 

his face 
On his hand ; and anon, as though wishing to 

chase 
With one angry gesture his own thoughts aside, 
He sprang up, brush 'd past her, and bitterly 

cried, 
"No! — Constance wed a Vargrave! — I cannot 

consent!*' 
Then up rose the Soeur Seraphine. 

The low tent, 
In her sudden uprising, seem'd dwarf'd by the 

height 
From which those imperial eyes pour'd the 

light 
Of their deep silent sadness upon him. 

No wonder 
He felt, as it were, his own stature shrink un- 
der 
The compulsion of that grave regard! For 

between 
The Due de Luvois and the Sceur Seraphine 
At that moment there rose all the height of one 

soul 
O'er another; she look'd down on him from 

the whole 
Lonely length of a life. There were sad nights 

and days. 
There were long months and years in that 

heart-searching gaze ; 



382 LUCILE. 

And her voice, when she spoke, Yfith sharp 

pathos thrill'd through 
And transfix'd him. 

** Eugene de Luvois, but for you, 
I might have been now — not this wandering 

nun, 
But a mother, a wife — pleading, not for the sort 
Of another, but blessing some child of my own, 
His, — the man's that I once loved! . . . Hush I 

that which is done 
I regret not. I breathe no reproaches. That's 

best 
Which God sends. 'Twas His will: it is mine. 

And the rest 
Of that riddle I will not look back to. He 

reads 
In your heart — He that judges of all thoughts 

and deeds. 
With eyes, mine forestall not ! This only I say : 
You have not the right (read it, you, as you 

may !) 
To say . . . *I am the wrong'd. ' " 

**Have I wrong'd thee? — wrong'd thee!"' 
He falter'd, *'Lucile, ah, Lucile!" 

''Nay, not me,"" 
She murmur'd, *'but man! The lone nunt 

standing here 
Has no claim upon earth, and is pass'd from 

the sphere 
Of earth's wrongs and earth's reparations. But 

she, 
The dead woman, Lucile, she whose grave is iit 

me, 
Demands from her grave reparation to man;,. 



LUCILE. 883 

Reparation to God. Heed, O heed, while you 

can 
This voice from the grave!" 

'*Hush!'* he moaned, *'I obey 
The Soeur Seraphine. There, Lucile ! let this 

pay 
Every debt that is due to that grave. Now lead 

on: 
I follow you Soeur Seraphine! ... To the 

son 
Of Lord Alfred Vargrave . . . And then, " . . . 

As he spoke 
He lifted the tent-door, and down the dun 

smoke 
Pointed out the dark bastions, with batteries 

crown'd, 
Of the city beneath them 

**Then, there, underground, 
And valete et plaudite, soon as may be! 
Let the old tree go down to the earth — the old 

tree, 
With the worm at its heart! Lay the ax to 

the root! 
Who will miss the old stump, so we save the 

young shoot? 
A Vargrave ! . . . this pays all . . . Lead 

on ! ... In the seed 
Save the forest! . . . 

I follow . . . forth, forth ! where you lead. 

XXX. 

The day was declining; a day sick and damp. 
In a bland ghostly glare shone the bleak 
ghostly camp 



384 LUCILE. 

Of the English. Alone in his dim, spectral 

tent 
(Himself the wan specter of youth), with eyes 

bent 
On the daylight departing, the sick man was 

sitting 
Upon his low pallet. These thoughts, vaguely 

flitting, 
Crossed the silence between him and death, 

which seem'd near, 
— **Pain o'errreaches itself, so is balk'd! else 

how bear 
This intense and intolerable solitude. 
With its eye on my heart and its hand on my 

blood? 
Pulse by pulse I Day goes down: yet she 

comes not again. 
Other suffering, doubtless, where hope is more . 

plain, y><- 

Claims her elsewhere. I die, strange! and 

scarcely feel sad. 
Oh, to think of Constance thus, and not to go 

mad! 
But Death, it would seem, dulls the sense to 

his own 
Dull doings ..." 

XXXI. 

Between those sick eyes and the sun 
A shadow fell thwart. 

XXXII. 

*Tis the pale nun once more! 
But who stands at her side, mute and dark in 
the door? 



i 



LUCILE. 385 

How oft had he watch 'd through the glory and 

gloom 
Of the battle, with long, longing looks that 

dim plume 
Which now (one stray sunbeam upon it) shook, 

stoop 'd 
To where the tent-curtain, dividing, was 

loop'd! 
How that stern face had haunted and hover 'd 

about 
The dreams it still scared! through what fond 

fear and doubt 
Had the boy yearn'd in heart to the hero! 

(What's like 
A boy's love for some famous man?) . . . Oh, 

to strike 
A wild path through the battle, down striking 

perchance 
Some rash foeman too near the great soldier 

of France, 
And so fall in his glorious regard ! . . . Oft, 

how oft 
His heart flashed this hope out, whilst watch- 
ing aloft 
The dim battle that plume dance and dart — 

never seen 
So near till this moment ! how eager to glean 
Every word, dropp'd through the camp-babble 

in praise 
Of his hero — each tale of old venturous days 
In the desert ! And now . . . could he speak 

out his heart 
Face to face with that man ere he died ! 

25 Lacile 



386 LUCILE. 

XXXIII. 

With a start 
The sick soldier sprang up: the blood sprang 

■up in him, 
To his throat, and o'erthrew him: he reel'd 

back : a dim 
Sanguine haze fill'd his eyes; in his ears rose 

the din 
And rush, as of cataracts loosened within, 
Through which he saw faintly, and heard, the 

pale nun 
(Looking larger than life, where she stood in 

the sun) 
Point to him and murmur, ''Behold!" Then 

that plume 
Seem'd to wave like a fire, and fade off in the 

gloom 
Which momently put out the world. 

XXXIV. 

To his side 
Moved the man the boy dreaded yet loved . . . 

"Ah!" . . . hesigh'd, 
'^The smooth brow, the fair Vargrave face! 

and those eyes, 
All the mother's! The old things again! 

"Do not rise. 
You suffer, young man?" 

The Boy. 

Sir, I die. 

The Duke. 

Not so young ! 



LUCILE. 387 

The Boy. 

So young? yes: and yet I have tangled among 
The fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of 

mine 
Other lives than my own. Could my death 

but untwine 
The vext skein . . . but it will not. Yes, 

Duke, young — so 37'oung! 
And I knew you not? yet I have done you a 

wrong 
Irreparable! . . . late, too late to repair. 
If I knew any means . . . but I know none ! 

... I swear, 
If this broken fraction of time could extend 
Into infinite lives of atonement, no end 
Would seem too remote for my grief (could 

that be !) 
To include it ! Not too late, however, for me 
To entreat; is it too late for you to forgive? 

The Duke. 

You wrong — my forgiveness — explain. 

The Boy. 

Could I live! 
Such a very few hours left to life, yet I shrink, 
I falter . . . Yes, Duke, your forgiveness I 

think 
Should free my soul hence. 

Ah! you could not surmise 
That a boy's beating heart, burning thoughts, 

longing eyes 
Were following you evermore (heeded not!) 



388 LUCILE. 

While the battle was flowing between ns : nor 

what 
Eager, dubious footsteps at nightfall oft went 
With the wind and the rain, round and round 

your blind tent, 
Persistent and wild as the wind and the rain, 
Unnoticed as these, weak as these, and as vain! 
Oh, how obdurate then look'd your tent! The 

waste air 
Grew stern at the gleam which said . . . ''Off! 

he is there!" 
I know not what merciful mystery now 
Brings you here, whence the man whom you 

see lying low 
Other footsteps (not those !) must soon bear to 

the grave. 
But death is at hand, and the few words I 

have 
Yet to speak, I must speak them at once. 

Duke, I swear, 
As I lie here, (Death's angel too close not to 

hear !) 
That I meant not this wrong to you. Due de 

Luvois, 
I loved your niece — loved? why, I love her! I 

saw, 
And, seeing, how could I but love her? I 

seem'd 
Born to love her. Alas, were that all ! Had I 

dream'd 
Of this love's cruel consequence as it rests now 
Ever fearfully present before me, I vow 
That the secret, unknown, had gone down to 

the tomb 



LUCILE. 389 

Into which I descend . . . Oh, why, whilst 

there was room 
In life left for warning, had no one the heart 
To warn me? Had any one whisper'd . . . 

" Depart!*' 
To the hope the whole world seem'd in league 

then to nurse ! 
Had any one hinted . . . "Beware of the curse 
Which is coming!'* There was not a voice 

raised to tell, 
Not a hand moved to warn from the blow ere 

it fell, 
And then . . . then the blow fell on both! 

This is why 
I implore you to pardon that great injury 
Wrought on her, and, through her, wrought on 

you, Heaven knows 
How unwittingly ! 

The Duke. 

Ah! . . . and, young soldier, suppose 
That I came here to seek, not grant, pardon? — 

The Boy. 

Of whom? 
The Duke. 
Of yourself. 

The Boy. 

Duke, I bear in my heart to the tomb 
No boyish resentment; not one lonely thought 
That honors you not. In all this there is 

naught. 
'Tis for me to forgive. 

Every glorious act 



390 LUCILE. 

Of your great life starts forward, an eloquent 

fact, 
To confirm in my boy's heart its faith in your 

own. 
And have I not hoarded, to ponder upon, 
A hundred great acts from your life? Nay^ 

all these. 
Were they so many lying and false witnesses, 
Does there rest not one voice, which w^as never 

untrue? 
I believe in Constance, Duke, as she does in 

you! 
In this great world around us, wherever we 

turn, 
Some grief irremediable we discern ; 
And yet — there sits God, calm in Heaven 

above ! 
Do we trust one whit less in His justice or 

love? 
I judge not. 

The Duke. 
Enough! Hear at last, then, the truth, 
Your father and I — foes we were in our youth. 
It matters not why. Yet thus much under- 
stand : 
The hope of my youth was sign'd out by his 

hand. 
I was not of those whom the buffets of fate 
Tame and teach: and my heart buried slain 

love in hate. 
If your own frank young heart, yet uncon- 
scious of all 
Which turns the heart's blood in its springtide 

to gall, 



LUCILE. 391 

And unable to guess even aught that the fur- 
row 

Across these gray brows hides of sin or of sor- 
row, 

Comprehend not the evil and grief of my life, 

'Twill at least comprehend how intense was 
the strife 

Which is closed in this act of atonement, where- 
by 

I seek in the son of my youth's enemy 

The friend of my age. Let the present release 

Here acquitted the past ! In the name of my 
niece, 

Whom for my life in yours as a hostage I give, 

Are you great enough, boy, to forgive me, — 
and live? 

Whilst he spoke thus, a doubtful tumultuous 
joy 

Chased its fleeting effects o'er the face of the 
boy: 

As when some stormy moon, in a long cloud 
confined, 

Struggles outward through shadows, the vary- 
ing wind 

Alternates, and bursts, self-surprised, from her 
prison. 

So that joy grew clear in his face. He had 
risen 

To answer the Duke; but strength fail'd every 
limb; 

A strange, happy feebleness trembled through 
him. 

With a faint cry of rapturous wonder, he sank 

On the breast of the nun, who stood near. 



392 LUCILE. 

**Yes, boy! thank 
This guardian angel," the Duke said. '*I — 

you, 
We owe all to her. Crown her work. Live ! 

be true 
To your young life's fair promise, and live for 

her sake!" 
** Yes, Duke: I will live. I must live — live to 

make 
My whole life the answer you claim," the boy 

said, 
*'For joy does not kill!" 

Back again the faint head 
Declined on the nun's gentle bosom. She saw 
His lips quiver, and motion 'd the Duke to 

withdraw 
And leave them a moment together. 

He eyed 
Them both with a wistful regard; turn'd, and 

sigh'd, 
And lifted the tent-door, and pass'd from the 

tent. 

XXXV. 

Like a furnace, the fervid, intense Occident 
From its hot seething levels a great glare 

struck up 
On the sick metal sky. And, as out of a cup 
Some witch watches boiling wild portents arise, 
Monstrous clouds, mass'd, misshapen, and 

ting'd with strange dyes. 
Hover' d over the red fume, and changed to 

weird shapes 
As of snakes, salamanders, efts, lizards, storks, 

apes, 



LUCILE. 393 

Chimeras, and hydras: whilst — ever the same 
In the midst of all these (creatures fused by 

his flame, 
And changed by his influence!) changeless, as 

when, 
Ere he lit down to death generations of men 
O'er that crude and ungainly creation, which 

there 
With wild shapes this cloud-world seem'd to 

mimic in air, 
The eye of Heaven's all-judging witness, he 

shone, 
And shall shine on the ages we reach not — the 

sun! 

XXXVI. 

Nature -posted her parable thus in the skies. 
And the man's heart bore witness. Life's 

vapors arise 
And fall, pass and change, group themselves 

and revolve 
Round the great central life, which is Love : 

these dissolve 
And resume themselves, here assume beauty, 

there terror; 
And the phantasmagoria of infinite error, 
And endless complexity, lasts but a while ; 
Life's self, the immortal, immutable smile 
Of God, on the soul, in the deep heart of 

Heaven 
Lives changeless, unchanged: and our morn^ 

ing and even 
Are earth's alternations, not Heaven's. 



394 LUCILE. 

XXXVII. 

While he yet 

Watch 'd the skies, with this thought in his 
heart ; while he set 

Thus unconsciously all his life forth in his 
mind, 

Summed it up, searched it out, proved it vapor 
and wind, 

And embraced the new life which that hour 
had reveal'd, — 

Love's life, which earth's life had defaced and 
concealed; 

Lucile left the tent and stood by him. 

Her tread 

Aroused him; and, turning toward her, he 
said: 

''O Soeur Seraphine, are you happy?" 

'*Eugene, 

What is happier than to have hoped not in 
vain?" 

She an§wer'd — ''And you?" 

*'Yes." 
"You do not repent?" 

"No." 

"Thank Heaven!" she murmur'd. He mus- 
ingly bent 

His looks on the sunset, and somewhat apart 

Where he stood, sigh'd, as though to his inner- 
most heart, 

"O bless'd are they, amongst whom I was not, 

Whose morning unclouded, without stain or 
spot. 

Predicts a pure evening; who, sunlike, in 
light 



LUCILE. 395 

Have traversed, unsullied, the world, and set 

bright!'* 
But she in response, **Mark yon ship faraway, 
Asleep on the wave, in the last light of day, 
With all its hush'd thunders shut up! Would 

you know 
A thought which came to me a few days ago, 
Whilst watching those ships? . . . When the 

great Ship of Life 
Surviving, though shatter'd, the tumult and 

strife 
Of earth's angry element, — mast broken short. 
Decks drench'd, bulwarks beaten — driven safe 

into port, 
When the Pilot of Galilee, seen on the strand, 
Stretches over the waters a welcoming hand; 
When, heeding no longer the sea's baffled 

roar. 
The mariner turns to his rest evermore; 
What will then be the answer the helmsman 

must give? 
Will it be ... * Lo our log-book ! Thus once 

did we live 
In the zones of the South ; thus we traversed 

the seas 
Of the Orient; there dwelt with the Hesper- 

ides; 
Thence followed the west wind; here, east- 
ward we turned; 
The stars faiVd us there ; just here land we dis- 
cern 'd 
On our lee ; there the storm overtook us at last ; 
That day went the bowsprit, the next day the 

mast ; 



396 LUCILE. 

There the mermen came round us, and there 

we saw bask 
A siren?* The Captain of Port will he ask 
Any one of such questions? I cannot think so! 
But . . . *What is the last Bill of Health you 

can show?' 
Not — How fared the soul through the trials 

she pass'd? 
But — What is the state of that soul at the last?" 
*'May it be so!" he sigh'd. ** There the sun 

drops, behold!" 
And indeed, whilst he spake all the purple and 

gold 
In the west had turned ashen, save one fading 

strip 
Of light that yet gleam'd from the dark nether 

lip 

Of a long reef of cloud; and o'er sullen ravines 
And ridges the raw damps were hanging white 

screens 
Of melancholy mist. 

''Nunc dimittis/'' she said. 
*'0 God of the living! whilst yet 'mid the dead 
And the dying we stand here alive, and Thy 

days 
Returning, admit space for prayer and for 

praise. 
In both these confirm us! 

**The helmsman, Eugene, 
Needs the compass to steer by. Pray always. 

Again 
We two part: each to work out Heaven's will: 

you, I trust, 
In the world's ample witness; and I, as I must, 



LUCILE. 397 

In secret and silence : yon, love, fame, await ; 
Me, sorrow and sickness. We meet at one 

gate 
When all's over. The ways they are many 

and wide. 
And seldom are two ways the same. Side by 

side 
May we stand at the same little door when all's 

done! 
The ways they are many, the end it is one. 
He that knocketh shall enter: who asks shall 

obtain : 
And who seeketh, he findeth. Remember, 

Eugene!'* 
She turn'd to depart. 

** Whither? whither?" ... he said. 
She stretched forth her hand where, already 

outspread 
On the darkened horizon, remotely they saw 
The French camp-fires kindling. 
*'See yonder vast host, with its manifold heart 
Made as one man's by one hope! The hope 

'tis your part 
To aid toward achievement, to save from re- 
verse : 
Mine, through suffering to soothe, and through 

sickness to nurse. 
I go to my work : you to yours. ' ' 

XXXVIII. 

Whilst she spoke, 
On the wide wasting evening there distantly 

broke 
The low roll of musketry. Straightway, anon, 



398 LUCILE. 

From the dim Flag-staff Battery bellow'd a 

gun. 
**Our chasseurs are at it!" he mutter 'd. 

She turn'd, 
Smiled, and pass'd up the twilight. 

He faintly discern 'd 
Her form, now and then, on the flat lurid sky 
Rise, and sink, and recede through the mists: 

T3y and by 
The vapors closed round, and he saw her no 

more. 

XXXIX. 

Nor shall we. For her mission, accomplished, 

is o'er. 
The mission of genius on earth! To uplift, 
Purify, and confirm by its own gracious gift, 
The world, in despite of the world's dull en- 
deavor 
To degrade, and drag down, and oppose it for- 
ever. 
The mission of genius: to watch, and to wait, 
To renew, to redeem, and to regenerate. 
The mission of woman on earth ! to give birth 
To the mercy of Heaven descending on earth. 
The mission of woman : permitted to bruise 
The head of the serpent, and sweetly infuse. 
Through the sorrow and sin of earth's regis- 

ter'd curse. 
The blessing which mitigates all: bom to 

nurse. 
And to soothe, and to solace, to help and to heal 
The sick world that leans on her. This was 
Lucile. 



LUCILE. 399 

XL. 

A powef hid in pathos : afire veiVd in cloud: 
Yet still burning outward: a branch which, 

though bow'd 
By the bird in its passage, springs upward 

again : 
Through all symbols I search for her sweet- 
ness — in vain! 
Judge her love by her life. For our life is but 

love 
In act. Pure was hers; and the dear God 

above, 
Who knows what His creatures have need of 

for life, 
And whose love includes all loves, through 

much patient strife 
Led her soul into peace. Love, though love 

may be given 
In vain, is yet lovely. Her own native heaven 
More clearly she mirror *d, as life's troubled 

dream 
Wore away; and love sigh'd into rest, like a 

stream 
That breaks its heart over wild rocks toward 

the shore 
Of the great sea which hushes it up evermore 
With its little wild wailing. No stream from 

its source 
Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course, 
But what some land is gladdened. No star 

ever rose 
And set without influence somewhere. Who 

knows 
What earth needs from earth's lowest creature? 

No life 



400 LUCILE. 

Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its 

strife 
And all life not be purer and stronger thereby. 
The spirits of just men made perfect on high, 
The army of martyrs who stand by the Throne 
And gaze into the face that makes glorious 

their own. 
Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, hon- 
est sorrow. 
Honest work for the day, honest hope for the 

morrow, 
Are these worth nothing more than the hand 

they make weary, 
The heart they have sadden'd, the life they 

leave dreary? 
Hush ! the sevenfold heavens to the voice of 

the Spirit 
Echo: He that o'ercometh shall all things in- 

^«"t- XLI. 

The moon was, in fire, carried up through the 

fog. 
The loud fortress bark*d at her like a chain 'd 

dog. 
The horizon pulsed flame, the air sound. All 

without, 
War and winter, and twilight, and terror, and 

doubt ; 
All within, light, warmth, calm ! 

In the twilight, longwhile 
Eugene de Luvois, with a deep, thoughtful 

smile, 
Linger 'd, looking, and listening, lone by the 

tent. 
At last he withdrew, and night closed as he 

went. THE END. 



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